New World
by iguana-of-eyre
Summary: Updating/editing again, just for fun, in case anyone cares... Anyway, goblins, due to humans moving dangerously close to their territory, were in dire straits. Instead of risking discovery, they moved into a parallel world, one with few humans, but a rather nasty addition in their place.
1. Chapter 1

The backstory I couldn't fit in the summary: Almost two hundred years ago, the goblins were in dire straits. Humans were encroaching more and more on their territory, and even the King's magic couldn't combat everything. There was nothing left but for the goblins to make another Great Migration. However, the question was _where_? Marak Catspaw was wise enough to realize that humans would follow wherever they went, and would continue to fill the Earth. There was nowhere left above or below ground that would be safe. So instead, the goblins went sideways. In one of the most powerful displays of magic since Marak Lionclaw, Catspaw and his counselors opened a gateway to another world. Humans were few there, and land was plentiful. The only problem was the original inhabitants.

Author's note: So I'm editing this a bit, and may start updating again, time permitting and assuming that people might actually read it.

Lines separate different POVs. Everything takes place at approximately the same time.

Please review! Much positive karma will be yours!

**Chapter 1 (Edited)  
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Marak Hawkeye drummed long, crooked fingers on the stone table before him, gazing sightlessly at the blank wall across the room, while the other goblins in the room eyed him with looks that ranged from curious (for those who didn't know him well) to highly uneasy (for those who did). The Chief Advisor was among the nervous ones, his pointed ears twitching slightly. The King was Thinking. This wasn't the ordinary sort of thinking. This was the sort of thinking that seemed to be reserved for Marak alone, and always resulted in some sort of brilliant but completely mad scheme. This, in and of itself, was not what worried the Chief Advisor. What worried him was the probable subject of the King's thoughts, a subject for which brilliant but mad schemes were simply not _practical_.

"Bedros," said Marak, suddenly, startling his advisor out of his reverie.

"Yes?" he answered, tentatively.

"This problem has gone on for quite long enough, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of what problem do you speak?" Bedros knew quite well what the King spoke of, but desired to prolong the inevitable.

"Don't play dense, Advisor. It doesn't become you. I speak of the necessity of obtaining a suitable King's Wife."

At these words a ripple seemed to run through the other goblins in the room, one of excitement.

"Yes, of course. You know that I am perfectly willing to speak to the Elf King on your behalf-"

"We have discussed this before. The fact that you persist in this idea of an elf bride-"

"With all due respect, what alternative do you have? A dwarf? Another goblin?" The advisor made a sound through slitted nostrils that (except for the dignified way in which he made it) might have been called a snort. "A _Troll_?"

There were slightly shocked mutters throughout the room now- what he had suggested went beyond unthinkable.

"You are leaving one possibility out, aren't you?"

This sparked yet another murmur among the assembly.

"A human?" Bedros nearly choked.

"Yes, Bedros, a human. Humans have imagination, creativity, and yet a certain practicality that we haven't seen these past years. We've had elvish King's Brides for so long, and though the magic of the Heirs, and by extension, all our people, has flourished as a result, I'm looking for something different. We've stagnated these last few decades, Bedros. The war with the trolls, our lack of expansion... I've tried my best, but it may be beyond me. I wish for the King after me to be not just intelligent, but creative and adaptable- traits even you must admit have been lacking in the last few King's Wives."

"But… a human? A frightened rabbit of a creature, long oppressed, nearly extinct? Perhaps they once were what you described, but no more! You can't be serious!"

"Are you making some sort of implication about my judgment, Advisor?" The King's tone at once went from mildly playful to glacial as he strode around the table, golden eyes glinting dangerously.

"No-o-o…" said Bedros, drawing out the syllables and frantically trying and failing to think of some way to say what he felt was necessary without angering his all-to-changeable King. "It's just that, well, the humans here… even you must admit that the humans here are simply not suitable material for a King's Bride!"

The King raised a finger and idly wagged it at his advisor.

"But I'm not talking about the humans _here_, Bedros."

"Not… you don't mean… not the Old World?" The Chief Advisor really did choke this time, and had to have his back pounded by one of the guards. The King courteously waited until he was quite finished with his fit.

"Yes, Bedros, the Old World."

"But the doorway has been sealed for hundreds of years! There's no guarantee that we would ever be able to open it, much less that you would be able to get in, find a suitable bride, and bring her back! And do you realize the changes that could have been wrought in the time since we left? Time runs slower there, but invention moves quickly! When the last party came back, they spoke of growling metal beasts roaming the streets, of machines that fly through the air, of devastating war, weapons that kill hundreds of people, thousands of them lining great trenches in the earth as death fell from the sky! There is a _reason _we've never gone back since then! Who's to say they haven't all killed themselves by now? Less than a hundred years may have passed for them, but humans die quickly."

Marak watched his advisor's impassioned speech with amusement.

"I am perfectly aware of that. However, it is my belief that humans are far more resilient than you give them credit for. If they are not all dead, then I believe one of them will be a far superior King's Bride than anyone we might find here."

"If! If they are not all dead! If things there aren't as bad for humans there as they are here! If you somehow miraculously manage to find a suitable candidate! You would stake lives on an-"

Bedros stopped speaking mid-sentence, conscious of narrowing golden eyes, of a stiffening of the spine of the goblin man in front of him, and the distinct realization that he had gone too far this time.

"Bedros. I am aware that it is your job to advise me, and, upon occasion, disagree with me. But I will not tolerate this continuing disrespect! Do I make myself clear?"

Bedros nodded dumbly, his mind racing as he envisioned the many possible ways Marak could inflict goblin revenge.  
>The Goblin King smiled.<p>

"Good. So then, we will see the doorway open within the next month. I, along with Necalli and twelve members of the Guard, will leave with the next new moon. Any other questions?"

* * *

><p>Alma was late. Very, very, late. As a result, she was very, very dead. She had promised to be home before six. It was now after eight, and, just to top it off, she had managed to forget her phone.<p>

"Mom is going to _kill me_." she muttered under her breath as she half walked, half ran through the woods, hoping all the while that the murderess in question wouldn't find out she had taken the shortcut through the park after nightfall too. That would really set her off. Of course, she didn't hold out too much hope. Sherlock Holmes had nothing on Aliane Rivera.

Alma continued through the trees, searching in the dark for the gate that would take her back to the orchard and eventually the bed-and-breakfast where her family was staying, now cursing the once welcome absence of city lights, traffic, and anything but trees, grass, and more trees. Nature was simply not as delightful in the dark, she decided, tripping over a root as she made this mental pronouncement. Perhaps London would have been a better choice for their English vacation.

* * *

><p>The goblins had worked tirelessly for almost two weeks to repair the gateway, with nobody working harder than Marak. He was everywhere, shouting orders, performing spells, looking up obscure pieces of magical knowledge that could potentially make the crossing between worlds the tiniest bit smoother. Finally, the night arrived, pitch black, not that any of the goblins cared.<br>Bedros paced back and forth, worrying and fretting. Marak watched him with amusement.

"Really, Advisor. I already have one mother."

"Well, my personal opinion is that you need approximately fifty to keep you out of trouble."

"Bedros, there is nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? _Nothing to worry about_?" Bedros's voice was practically a shriek, his pointed ears quivering with indignation, his white eyes blazing with a combination of fury and fear. "My King is going through a highly experimental magical gateway to a world we left hundreds of years ago! There is no guarantee the gateway works both ways, there are suitable brides here, the Trolls might find and attack this terribly exposed position we're in now, we're practically in their territory, you realize the havoc they could wreak if they get through the gateway-"

"Bedros, there aren't suitable brides here and you know it. We need a human this time. The trolls will not attack. They keep no watch on this area, and we have the bulk of their fighters fairly well tied down far to the east."

The discussion was interrupted by a triumphant shout from the top of the flattened hill. Two stone pillars stood there, and between them a brilliant fire was now raging. Marak smiled. He took no leave of his advisor, merely clapped him on the shoulder as he turned and strode directly into the flames, followed by his military commander and the specially chosen guardsmen.

* * *

><p>The gate still stubbornly refused to appear. Alma was beginning to get nervous.<p>

"I am not lost." She growled to herself. "The gate's just farther than I thought it was. That's all. It's not that dark yet. I'll find the gate in a little bit. I'm not lost. Just a little turned around. I'm not lost, I'm not lost, I'm not-"

"Oh, you aren't?" Alma jumped about a foot in the air. The voice was light and pleasant, but with an odd undertone of harshness to it, and a slight accent that was hard to place, though it reminded her of the way people spoke in old British period dramas. And she had the distinct idea that it was laughing at her.

Recovering her equilibrium, Alma decided to respond to the mystery voice.

"No, I am not lost. And I think it's rude to talk to someone when they can't see you."

"Ah. Forgive me, I had forgotten."

"You forgot? What, that people have eyes and they are necessary for sight and they don't work as well in the dark?"

"I, ah, have night vision rather beyond the normal range. I tend to forget that I can see people but they can't see me."  
>With that, the speaker came forward into the half-light of the wooded path. Alma blinked to make sure she wasn't dreaming, then blinked again. The person standing before her looked like he'd walked right out of Lord of the Rings. For starters, he was wearing a cloak. Not just any cloak- it was a genuine, full-length, black affair with a deep hood and silver fastenings. He also wore highly polished, positively immaculate black boots, which had absolutely no right to be so immaculate given the high volume of mud on the path. And gloves, shiny black leather gloves that encased long fingers. Alma frowned. There was something wrong about his fingers. She couldn't quite tell what it was, but it bothered her.<p>

"Better now?"

She managed to nod, though she badly wanted to shake her head and quite possibly clamber up the nearest tree. Her first thought was a strange, hopeful leap: that this was exactly like her books, where the heroine meets the Mysterious Stranger in a lonely wood and magical adventures ensue. Her second thought was more of a self-administered scolding: things like that don't happen in real life. They only happen in books, and daydreaming about them had gotten her into enough trouble. Her third thought was of deranged, sociopathic, homicidal stalkers accosting young women in the woods after which they are never heard from again.

"Well, since you aren't lost, I suppose you won't need any help in getting back to the Lodge?"

"No, I- how do you know I'm staying at the Lodge?" _He knows where I'm staying, he knows, he knows, how does he know?_

"I didn't, quite, but now I do." Alma could almost feel him smirking beneath the hood. That irritated her, and irritation and righteous anger can be quite effective antidotes to fear.

"Well, now that we've established that I don't need your help, perhaps you would be kind enough to get out of my way!"

"That would be doing you a disservice, my dear. The Lodge is that way." He pointed down the way she'd just come.

"It is not! I've walked this path lots of times! This is the way! And I am not your dear!"

"Much as I hate to disagree with a lady, I assure you that I know this country better than you do. The Lodge is back the way you came, you have not walked this path 'lots of times'- don't argue; I know you're lying- and what would you propose I call you? There are a limited number of nominally respectable things I can call you without knowing your name. So you must either tell me your name or resign yourself to being 'my dear' for the duration of this conversation."

"It will be of short duration. Goodbye." With that, Alma turned and began striding back down the path, forcing herself not to look back. She breathed a faint sigh of relief when she heard no footsteps following her.

_Apparently the stalkers here dress like Ring Wraiths. Go figure. _Alma steadfastly refused to turn and look behind her as she stalked off towards the lodge, holding onto her annoyance and embarrassment, these being preferable to (totally irrational, she told herself) the dreadful, creeping, almost otherworldly unease.

* * *

><p>Had Alma turned and looked behind her, the rational part of her mind might have gone into a tailspin and self-destruct. She would have seen the figure lower his hood, revealing brilliant golden eyes set in a strange, angular face on a large, bony head flanked by sharply pointed ears, whorled inside like a seashell. She would have seen strands of rough black hair sticking every which way, intermingled with mottled brown and gold feathers. In short, she would have seen a goblin.<br>Marak Hawkeyes smiled. Coming back to Old World was proving a very good idea indeed. Along with the idea of bringing the Painters. He'd acted on impulse, having them redraw the path so that the girl he'd seen leaving town would find him. She had been the first to interest him after days of watching, wandering about some of the ancient paths on the land, even visiting the tree circle, instead of what seemed to be the more tourist-friendly areas. He'd been rather fascinated by her appearance as well, as he'd noted her dark skin and deep brown eyes, and what he considered the curious texture of her black hair, something he'd never seen in the few humans he'd come across in his still fairly isolated, northern kingdom. True, she didn't have the beauty of an elf, but then, no human woman really did. And then she'd scolded him for talking where she couldn't see him. No human from his world would have spoken so, and an elf woman would have simply fled in terror. Yes, the Old World plan had been brilliant. Marak smiled, anticipating the chase. Though what on earth was she _wearing_?

* * *

><p>When Alma finally reached the hotel, she breathed a brief sigh of relief as she noted that there was no police car in front of the large white house. However, this relief was short-lived as soon as she stepped in the door. Her mother stood in the center of the living area on the main floor, hands on hips, the normally gentle brown eyes she'd passed down to her daughter flashing with anger. The small, birdlike woman behind the counter looked like she was about to say something, then changed her mind as Aliane turned her gaze on her.<p>

"Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Reeves." she said, in dangerously soft, gentle tones that made Alma want to run and hide under a rock. "As you can see, my daughter is perfectly fine now. Would you do me a favor and call my husband so he knows to come back from town?"

Alma groaned inwardly. If her father had driven to town to look for her, then they must have been really worried. That did not bode well for the rest of this vacation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 (Edited)  
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Alma knew she was in for it. If there had been any possibility of telling her mother about the man in the woods, it had vanished when she saw the Look. The Look was a specialty of Aliane's- the sort of look that warned of impending, utterly inevitable doom, as well as usually making the recipient feel like crawling under a rock to die. Alma was not about to prove her mother right in the coming lecture about safety.

"_How many times_, Alma? We're in a foreign country, out in the middle of nowhere, and you simply forget your phone? And forget to come back until three hours after you were supposed to? _Three hours_? Do you have any idea how worried we were? If you weren't back within another fifteen minutes we would have called the police!"

Alma shrugged.

"And that's it? You can only shrug?"

Alma shrugged again.

"Alma, you realize that there have been many documented reports of girls going missing in this area?"

"Mom, those reports are from, like, two hundred years ago! Whoever did it is dead!"

"The disappearances happened over a large enough span of time that it had to be more than one person. If there's a copycat…"

"How likely is that?" Alma almost shouted.

"Well, when my daughter goes missing for _three hours_-"

"Mom, I'm fine! I'm seventeen! You don't have to treat me like I'm five!"

"Alma, I was terrified! You promised that you wouldn't do this again, especially not now! We talked about this before, back home. Someone could have followed us here, looking for money… Don't you have something to say?"

The answer she got was a sullen glare.

Aliane flung up her hands in the universal "I give up" gesture.

"We'll decide what to do after your dad gets back. But you are in serious trouble."

Alma turned silently and stalked into her room. She knew it would only set her mom off further if she told her where she'd actually been. How to explain that she'd gone past the town, that she'd ended up at a hill where you could see for miles, surrounded by a crown of oak trees that looked like they'd been there since the beginning of time, and had felt so safe, so happy, that she'd simply fallen asleep. She had the feeling that falling asleep alone on a hilltop in a strange country would turn out to be quite high on her mother's "do not attempt" list and would result in her being in even more trouble. This besides the fact that she never should have taken the shortcut or talked to that man. But, as is the right of any seventeen-year-old girl, she still held to her opinion that her mother was overreacting. And while rationally she knew her mother was right, she also knew that she didn't _want_ her mother to be right, and was reacting with the appropriate anger. To escape thoughts that were coming alarmingly close to shame, and to dispel the lingering fear from her encounter with the strange man, she put on headphones and, with a slight effort of will, managed to lose herself in _Les Miserables_.

* * *

><p>Aliane lowered her head into her hands. She hated fighting with her daughter. But Alma would never understand why her mother got so worried when went incommunicado for hours at a time, more worried than anybody else she knew. She would never understand the danger she could find herself in, danger that followed her and her mother specifically, especially when they were in this particular area, and Aliane never wanted her to have the opportunity to gain that understanding.<p>

_Why did I let José bring us to_ England_ of all places? It might no__t have been dangerous for centuries, but we don't _know _that! Mama always warned me against tempting fate, especially with our family history-  
><em>

A knock at the door dispelled her disquieting thoughts, as her husband entered the room. José could make anyone's dark thoughts disappear by sheer force of personality, though the fact that he looked like a romance novelist's dream of the ideal Latin lover hardly hurt. Aliane had often wondered that it had taken so long for his career as a musician to take off- looks alone should have been more than enough. Then again, José was frequently embarrassed by mention of his good looks, considering them incidental and even, in some ways, detrimental to the music that was his passion.

"I hear the prodigal has returned?" He asked the question cautiously, given that he truly hated coming anywhere near anyone, especially his wife and daughter, when they argued.

Aliane sighed. "Indeed she has. José, this is the third time this has happened! She _can't_ keep vanishing like this. It's not safe."

Now it was José's turn to sigh.

"Haven't you ever considered the fact that perhaps you're being..." He trailed off.

"Being _what?_"

"Er... don't take this the wrong way, _querida..._" He looked at her a bit nervously. "But you can be rather... overbearing... at times."

Aliane glared. "I'm trying to keep our daughter safe!" she snapped.

José raised his hand in a placating gesture. "I know. But she is of that age where even reasonable restrictions are going to grate on her. If you relaxed a bit... she might be easier for you to deal with."

"José, she was three hours late, and we had no way of contacting her!"

"I know..." He sighed, and gave up, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door, deciding to pursue the matter later, when his wife would be less inclined to jump down his throat. Conflict resolution was hardly his strong suit, which was partly why he'd been so desperate for their vacation. Trying to deal with the long stream of agents, paparazzi, lawyers and record company executives in the States had taken a great toll on him. England had seemed a peaceful getaway for a time, and upon arrival at the Hallow Hill Lodge, he'd felt an immediate peace, even an odd sense of homecoming, a sense quite distinct from the enveloping comfort he always felt when visiting his family in Colombia. Unfortunately, it didn't look like the peace would be lasting. He shook his head, silently praying that Aliane and Alma would resolve their differences soon, preferably without his involvement.

Aliane watched her husband walk away. She knew why he wanted her to ease up on Alma, and she also knew she could never, ever tell him why she was so adamant that Alma's location be tracked at all times, especially here. Nor could she tell him why she'd furiously resisted the idea of coming to England at all. It was true the place probably hadn't been dangerous for centuries, but Aliane had learned to be sensitive over the course of her life, and something was happening. She didn't know what it was, but she wanted her husband and daughter far away from it. Across the ocean, preferably. Or, failing that, locked in a medieval castle with an army and pots of boiling oil.

* * *

><p>Marak strode back to the goblins' camp, feeling alive with excitement. His military commander, Necalli, came out to meet him from the tent where she had been dismantling and examining various stolen electronics. She smiled as she recognized her King's mood. Given that her head greatly resembled that of a crocodile, it was an excessively impressive and <em>pointy<em> smile.

"It went well, then?"

"I have found her."

"When?"

"Tomorrow. I'll need some time to prepare. This world is very different."

"Surely nobody can follow us once we closed the gateway? I've been examining their security- some devices could cause problems, but nothing that can't be handled. And we don't plan on being caught, anyway."

"I'm not concerned with pursuit. I'm worried about the effect crossing the barrier will have on my bride. She'll be entering another world."

"Every King's Bride enters new world."

"In this case it isn't a metaphor."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: And this chapter is officially dedicated to AiramS for being my first reviewer! And on that note, come on, people. I see the hits my story gets and I see no reviews and I get sad. If you like it (or if you hate it, I'm not picky) please review! I will reciprocate._  
><em>

__**Chapter 3**

The spy shook in his boots as he gave his report to the troll king. He was human, and therefore low-level and expendable, besides being not exactly the poster child for competence, not to mention the bearer of bad news. He knew this was not a good combination. By the time he'd finished explaining about how the goblins had somehow snuck into their territory and figured out how to reopen the gateway without ever having had to engage in combat, the sweat was pouring off him in buckets and he rather desperately required another pair of breeches.

"So… er… that's really it, majesty…" He trailed off lamely, fighting the urge to turn tail and run. The troll king tended to have that effect on people. It wasn't just that he was seven feet tall. It wasn't even the skin like bleached bone. Mind you, given that trolls grow their skeletons outside their bodies, 'bleached bone' was not merely a figure of speech. An average troll gives the impression of a tall, inhumanly beautiful porcelain statue that has been broken and glued back together at the joints. In this way the King was no exception. It was the eyes that were different. They were bright, electric blue, unlike the more usual gray or green, and the madness in their depths would have had legions of insane Roman emperors on their knees in awe. Of course, the massive throne of black stone helped, as did the crown of silver spikes, flowing purple and black robes with their subtle skull motif, and the large jeweled battle axe in his mail-gloved hands. On some aspiring dark lords the effect would have been ostentatious to the point of being simply tacky. But such trappings tend away from 'tacky' and more towards 'deadly elegance' when a person is seven feet tall, possessed of uncanny and very specifically inhuman good looks, and gives off the distinct air of having passed through Hell itself and come out only mildly impressed. Every troll has a small core of corruption at their heart. They were created to hate. But their King personified that corruption, refined it, and positively reveled in it, complete with the requisite mad laughter.

"Oh, that's_ it_, is it?" The voice was deceptively mild, like a cobra sliding over silk.

"YesyescanIpleasegonow?" The words came out as a rapid squeak.

There was a whistling arc of steel through the air, a clang as the battle axe hit one of the hall's pillars, and a thud as the man's head hit the floor.

"Someone clean it up…" The king murmured this distractedly as he stepped off the dais and over the man's body. Servants rushed to do his bidding. They knew that in this mood, when he stared into a landscape that only he could see and became quiet and still, the King was capable of anything.

"Send Ranulf and Keir to me." Within moments the two lieutenants stood in the hall, slight wheezing the only indication that they had run there as fast as their legs could carry them. The two troll men made an interesting contrast; though both possessed the air of alien grace and elegance that comes naturally to their species, Ranulf was definitely the clumsier of the two. His bone skin had been repaired numerous times with the porcelain-like clay trolls use to bind wounds, and it showed. He was also shorter than his counterpart, barely reaching six feet, and his clothes didn't seem to quite fit him. Keir, on the other hand, was grace and beauty personified, with features that would have made a Renaissance painter weep with joy. He subtly leaned away from his companion- no troll liked to be associated with physical imperfection of any kind.

"Majesty." Their murmur of the word sounded as though they had practiced for weeks to get the precise timing right.

"It seems we have a problem."

The lieutenants knew better than to comment unless specifically asked. Mutual protection (if not actual liking or trust) had kept them alive for the first seventeen years of life, and learning to read their monarch had kept them alive for the next ten, longer than any previous king's lieutenants.

"The goblins have discovered a path to their Old World, and I think we know why. Ranulf?"

"The goblin King's Bride?" Ranulf didn't look at his master for confirmation- the fact that he was still alive proved he was right.

"Indeed." The king paused in contemplation. "They really should not be allowed. Of course, no troll can cross the border between worlds…"

* * *

><p>Alma sat in her room in sullen silence. She debated picking up some form of distraction, but decided against it. She wanted to feel angry. As punishment for three hours MIA, she'd been officially grounded and restricted to the hotel for three days. The first of those days was just winding towards dusk, and Alma wanted to scream her head off. The day had been beautiful, and seeing all the other guests heading for the woods or the town had been pure torture.<p>

She could hear her parents talking. In a fit of ill-conceived pride, Alma had refused dinner, a decision she was now regretting, though not enough to unbend and ask her parents for some food. So she merely listened in bad-tempered silence to their laughter. Then she frowned. It was not just the laughter of her parents she was hearing.

She went to the slightly opened window. It led to the back of the Lodge, and a view of the forest. It had gotten quite dark in a short amount of time, but Alma could see a light just beyond the tree line. A bonfire? It wasn't allowed, but somebody obviously didn't care. The laughter was getting nearer. She couldn't see, so she leaned partway out the window, reaching out to brace herself on a convenient branch. The very next moment she was backpedaling frantically, trying to escape the furry embodiment of death whose tail she had pinched with her hand. The creature finally disentangled itself, and then stood at the center of her floor on its hind legs, looking at Alma as though she were the scum of the earth. It was a squirrel. A large squirrel, to be sure, but still a squirrel. All right, a very large and angry squirrel, which squeaked at her in a manner that somehow equated itself with a lecture from her mother. When the lengthy, squeaky tirade was finished, it leapt out the window. Breaking from the strange paralysis that seemed to have overtaken her during the furry assault, Alma ran to the window. What she saw there nearly made her fall out. It was the man from the path, standing outside and looking up at her. He was still cloaked, though he was no longer alone- there were several other figures around him, similarly dressed. And to complete the oddness, or perhaps because the universe found it necessary to inject comic relief into a scene that otherwise would have been reminiscent of several bad horror movies, the squirrel shot down the tree and straight into the mysterious man's arms, bristling.

"I see Adwin doesn't like you." The man's voice was quiet, yet somehow managed to worm its way up and into Alma's brain without any need for extra volume.

"Well, I have to say I don't particularly like Adwin." She fought the urge to slam the window and turn away- she didn't want to seem intimidated. "I don't take well to being attacked."

"One could argue that you attacked him first. And you do seem of the 'attack first' type of personality anyway."

"It's not my fault if he was taking a nap outside my window!"

"You should watch where you put your hands, then." Despite the hood, she to the impression he was smiling, or smirking, rather. Now Alma bristled slightly.

"Why are you here?"

"Oh, I came to find Adwin." Alma looked at him suspiciously. She didn't think he'd lied, but he certainly hadn't told her everything.

"Is that the only reason?"

"No."

"Will you tell me what the other reasons are?"

"Perhaps." He was smirking again. The man just radiated insufferable smugness. "Though if you want to find out more we should conduct this conversation on more equal ground. Will you come down?"

Alma caught herself examining the tree by her window, considering whether it would make a good ladder. She stopped herself hurriedly.

"You are not getting me with that. For all I know the moment I come down you'll just grab me and carry me off to God knows where." As soon as she said it, Alma shivered. Somehow, it seemed like she'd hit a mark. "I don't even know your name."

The man tilted his head to one side as he examined her.

"It's Marak."

"Mark?"

"Marak, not Mark. Now will you come down? I don't bite."

"Why?"

"Why don't I bite? I really dislike the taste of human flesh-"

"You know what I mean!"

"Well, you should have been more specific. As to why you should come with me, maybe because if you don't you'll wonder for the rest of your life what an adventure you could have had."

Alma was down the tree before she could pause for thought. Marak's hood tilted slightly, and she had the feeling that he was pleased. He reached out and offered her his black-gloved hand, indicating the woods and the light that burned there. She hesitated before taking it.

_We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits. Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry, thirsty roots?_

_Now where did that thought come from? _ wondered Alma. Still, for whatever reason, it seemed appropriate. She looked back at Marak. Again she felt him smile.

"Shall we?" he asked.

After another moment's hesitation, she took the proffered hand. The other black cloaked figures seemed to sigh- relief? Sadness? She couldn't tell. She just knew that while so many things felt wrong in the situation, Marak was right. She'd wanted an adventure her entire life.

"Yes." she said.

Marak turned, and led his bride into the woods. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dedicated again to AiramS! Thank you so much!

**Chapter 4**

Alma walked beside Marak into the forest, stumbling occasionally in the darkness. The faint light they were walking towards did nothing to aid her vision, and several times she was forced to cling to his arm to avoid falling. What with his silent smugness whenever this happened, only fear of looking even more ridiculous without him to guide her prevented her from furiously dropping his hand. Finally, they reached a clearing in front of a sheer cliff face. There was indeed a bonfire, quite a large one. More black cloaks were gathered around it, sitting on blankets. Conversation ceased when they saw who was approaching. Alma was hesitant about going forward, but Marak pulled her closer to the fire. Two of the figures gave up their blanket for them to sit.

"You aren't supposed to have fires here, you know." The silence had been getting on her nerves.

"Aren't we? Who says so?"

"Um, the people who own the land?"

Marak and the others around the fire burst out laughing.

"What did I say?" demanded Alma, crossly.

"And how do the people who say they own the land prove it?" asked Marak, still chuckling.

"I don't know. Deeds, papers… supposedly it's belonged to this one family for a hundred years or more."

"Ah. Well, I know the original owners of this land. I don't believe they ever gave up ownership. And if it's papers, well, they kept very detailed records here. And this fire isn't hurting anyone."

"Who were the original owners of the land?" In spite of herself, Alma was rather curious. "The original feudal lord and his descendants? Or people even older?"

"Oh, older."

"Vikings?"

"Older."

Alma frowned, trying to remember who came before the Vikings. She hadn't taken much of an interest in pre-medieval England. They didn't have castles.

"…Romans?" she guessed. Immediately she thought the idea was silly. Even if Romans had lived at Hallow Hill they couldn't possibly still have any claim to the land.

"Excellent grasp of history, but there is another group even older. And they never left- they simply faded away, lived in secret."

"You're getting into the Iron Age. Don't tell me there are still cavemen living here."

"Cavemen? No."

Alma looked at him quizzically, wondering if she had imagined the stress he put on that last syllable.

"So who was it?"

In her interest in the mysterious landowners, Alma hadn't noticed the other black cloaked figures casually drawing in around her, cutting off any escape to the forest.

"If I told you I doubt you'd believe me."

"Are you going to tell me it was fairies? Elves?"

This brought on another bought of uproarious laughter.

"Oh, no elves ever owned this land." Alma got the feeling this was some private joke she would never understand.

"Are you making fun of me? You said you'd tell me why you're here, and so far you've given me nothing but riddles!"

"I said you'd find out more if you came with me. I didn't necessarily say I would tell you anything." He forestalled her protest with a raised hand. "I said I wouldn't tell, not that I wouldn't show."

* * *

><p>The host was ready to leave. A hundred soldiers, all human, dressed in the best armor that could be provided. It was light armor, painted dull black for stealth. They were armed with short swords- only trolls were permitted battle axes. The commander walked down the line on inspection. None of the soldiers moved a muscle. Though the soldiers were both male and female and seemed to have a representative of every possible combination of skin, hair, and eye colors, there was a certain sameness about them. They stood the same way, held their heads the same way, and when asked to give their battle cry, the volume of every voice was exactly the same.<p>

Orders to charge headlong into an alternate universe would probably have given even a highly trained ordinary human soldier pause for thought. But these were not ordinary humans. Trolls were all corrupted, and any humans living with trolls would eventually come to share that corruption. Sometimes the process was helped along by magic, removing all fear, love, independent thought, personality- in short, leaving them human in name only. They were ideal foot soldiers, with no qualms about sacrificing themselves for the good of their masters. And no need to feel bad about sacrificing them, if it came to that, because they were expendable, mindless drones. How they became that way was something no troll would concern himself with. It was just a human, after all.

The troll king wanted this mission to succeed, and so he had sent these, the best of his human soldiers. They had simple orders. Kill the goblins, enter the gateway, and attack the goblin king, capturing or killing any humans he might have near him. New blood would be good for the slaves, and the king was always looking for interesting new pets.

The troll commander lowered his sword, and the dead-eyed, black-armoured host marched towards the hill on which green flames were winking.

* * *

><p>Alma was facing the cliff.<p>

"This is ridiculous. You're telling me it's a door?"

"Yes."

"And how does it work? Glowing runes? 'Speak friend and enter'?"

"I have no idea what you just said, so I will ignore it. Close your eyes."

"Why?"

Marak turned his head in her direction. She could feel his exasperation, and couldn't suppress the thought that perhaps he was not the wisest choice in people to aggravate. Then something occurred to her, and she nearly smacked herself for not mentioning it sooner.

"Why won't you take your hood off?"

"Because I do not wish to."

"Why not?" she said automatically.

"Perhaps you don't want to see."

"But I do!"

On impulse, she made a brief, wild grab for his hood. He caught her wrist.

"Don't do that again." His voice was practically glacial, and Alma was suddenly aware of how strong he was and just how unlikely it was that anyone at the Lodge would hear if she screamed. He sighed when he saw her face. "I'm not going to harm you, Alma. But you aren't ready to see."

"And yet I'm supposed to trust you?"

"I just told you I won't harm you. I never lie. Anyway, you've come this far, haven't you?"

Despite her nervousness and a lingering sense that something was wrong about the whole situation, Alma realized that she actually believed him when he said he wouldn't hurt her. She closed her eyes. She felt Marak take her hand and pull her forward, towards the solid cliff face.

"Open your eyes."

She did, and gasped. They were in a narrow, dim room, the walls of which seemed to be made of thousands of tiny panels. She looked behind, trying to see where they had come in, but there was nothing but more panels and the other black cloaked people, one of whom had a torch. Frowning, Alma went to one of the walls to examine them, and rubbed at one with her sleeve. As she did so, ancient dust and grime was scrubbed off, leaving a bright sheen. She looked at Marak for an explanation, and he nodded at one of his companions.

"Mirrors." said the tall black cloak. The voice, though commanding and fairly deep revealed her to be a woman. "Once, walking into this room was like walking into a kaleidoscope. You'd see yourself reflected hundreds of times, and it could be quite overwhelming. The idea was to make it difficult for enemies to find the next entrance." She gestured at one slightly different section of wall, which, when pushed, led into a narrow corridor of black stone, equally dusty, though recent tracks made it apparent that Marak and his band of… whatever they were had been there several times. The corridor ended in an iron door.

"Now the fun part." said Marak. He gestured at the woman. "Necalli, if you will?" He added to Alma, "This might be… odd. To you, at least."

Necalli walked forward.

"Hello, door."

Alma nearly jumped out of her skin when a booming, cheerful voice replied, "Hello, Necalli. It is so nice to have people going in and out again."

"We need to get in again, door."

"But you just came out!"

"And now we need to go back in."

"But I have to wait for orders."

"Your orders are to let us in."

"Who is the girl?"

"A guest."

"But there hasn't been a-"

"Door, you don't want to try my patience!" Her voice had the sharp ring reminiscent of someone who was half terrifying school teacher and half drill sergeant.

If ever a door could sulk, it would have, even as it swung open with a slight squeak from rusty hinges. The party continued through into what appeared to be a vast cave, though the shell-shocked Alma had to be guided gently by Marak. Finally, she was able to speak.

"Did that door… did it just… how did it…"

"Yes, the door talks. Another measure against enemies. In this case, they were supposed to keep the enemy busy long enough for the guards to come and kill it, or just until they were annoyed to death." said Necalli, who seemed more amused than anything by Alma's reaction.

"But how can a door talk?"

"Perhaps now might be a good time for explanations?" suggested one of the other black cloaks. Marak nodded briefly.

"I suppose it would be easier to show you." he said. He held out his hands. Slowly, a ball of light grew between them. Fascinated, Alma couldn't look away. This was magic. It was real, it was being worked in front of her. Unlike some, Alma had no doubts about her sanity, knew that no one had drugged her, and did not suspect Marak of hypnotizing her. It was too real, too solid, and she'd wished for it for too long. She gasped slightly as, with a brief shout, Marak tossed the light into the air. It exploded into hundreds of smaller lights that slowly floated downwards. Alma gasped again at what they revealed.

The cavern was huge. They were standing in a narrow valley, on what appeared to be a road, which led up to a massive building carved out of rock.

"Romans?" said Alma shakily. The building did resemble a Roman temple somewhat.

"No." said Marak. She could feel him smiling.

I suppose he's glad I didn't faint, she thought.

"Then who? And… who are you, exactly?"

Marak didn't answer, but led her down the path. Alma stared around in wonder as they passed jeweled trees and flowers, and over a small stream with almost luminescent bubbles. Everything was beautiful, though it clearly hadn't been lived in for a long time. There were signs of small animals and insects everywhere, and in places the stream had eroded its banks, spilling water and giving rise to moss and lichen, while some of the metal in the trees had tarnished beyond recognition. Bits of masonry had broken off and fallen among the artificial flowers, and the gems in the flowers themselves were dull with age. They passed into the building, and Marak waved a hand, illuminating a chandelier. Alma saw that it was the crystals themselves glowing, not candles. Even this showed signs of age, as some wires had rusted and prisms lay broken on the floor. And yet, it wasn't violent. They passed through more rooms, all decorated opulently with jewels and precious metals, and while all showed signs of age- decrepit, rotted furniture and rugs, lichen and mold, cobwebs- there were no signs of any violent struggle. And there didn't appear to be any personal effects left anywhere- no brushes, combs, toys, books, clothes, jewelry, weapons. And no sign of food left out, or any skeletons.

"This place was abandoned." said Alma, softly. "There's nothing left except what people couldn't carry. And no bodies or signs of a struggle."

"Very good." said Marak. He tilted the hood towards her again, and added, "Have you ever wondered why it's called Hollow Lake?"

* * *

><p>It had been a bitter battle. Goblins could fight like demons when needed, and frequently used magic to their advantage. Each of the troll king's host had a limited amount of protection against magical attack, but it wasn't always enough. Despite being outnumbered, the goblins sold their lives dearly. By the time the host had claimed the hill and killed the last of the goblins, half of their own number<p>

were dead, and many of the half that weren't suffered from terrible wounds.

"We continue." said one of the host captains. As one, they turned towards the green fire between the pillars.

Just then, there was movement near the gateway. A small goblin with bird feet and a long beak, and a massive, gaping wound in his belly forced himself to his feet, and flung himself towards the fire. The host rushed forward to stop him, but he was already through.

* * *

><p>Alma stood at the balcony, staring at the watery sky of the Hollow Kingdom.<p>

"This is real." she whispered. Then she turned to Marak. "But who are these people? Why did they have magic? Why do you have magic? Where did you come from? Where did they go?"

He raised a hand to stop the flow of questions.

"My ancestors come from here. But I was not raised here. Come, I'll show you."

She noticed the other black cloaks were whispering, and glancing at her every so often. It felt odd. Not for the first time, Alma wondered what she was doing.

Why the hell am I doing this? Why did I follow someone I don't know into ruins that I didn't know existed? And now there's magic? Magic? This is insane…

It wasn't to be the last time she had that thought.

Marak led the group into a wide room of black stone. Alma gasped as she saw the wall of water at one end.

"The water mirror." said Marak. "Used to see things that were far off, and to move about the land instantly. In later years, it was… expanded."

Just then, all hell broke loose. The water in the mirror began to twist and bulge in a sickening way. Alma cried out as she saw the small, strange creature with bird feet fall through the mirror and land on the floor.

"My King!" it shouted, and choked desperately. That's when Alma saw the belly wound. She felt sick. Marak rushed to the creature's side, pressing a hand to its wound.

"Too late for me." It whispered. Then, more urgently, "My King! Leave, now! They're coming!"

"Who is coming?" demanded Marak urgently.

"The host! Go…" Its eyes rolled back in its head, and it lay still. Alma sat in stunned silence.

"Necalli!" Shouted Marak. The water was bulging again. Necalli nodded and snapped her fingers at the other cloaked figures. Instantly, the cloaks were dropped and weapons produced. Alma almost screamed as she saw the features the cloaks had concealed. Dog paws, bird wings, soup-plate, orange eyes, a crocodile's smile… Then Marak dropped his cloak and she did give a little scream as she took in the feathers, the spiky, rough hair, and the slitted gold eyes. He took her arm, and she tried to jerk back.

"Get away from me!"

"Alma! You have to understand- I won't harm you, but what's coming through that gateway will! Our only chance of surviving is to get through it when they come in and are still disoriented. So you have to hold on to me!"

"What are you?"

He smiled briefly, revealing pointed teeth.

"I'm a goblin, my dear. The Goblin King, in fact. Now hold onto my cloak!"

She grabbed it, numb with shock. The twisting in the mirror revealed soldiers in black armor, human ones. Alma might have run towards them, but there was something terrible about them. Their eyes were dead, completely, as though there was no one left inside them. And any doubts she might have had were dispelled when one of them stabbed the smallest goblin guardsman. He crumpled. Suddenly, battle was joined. The din was horrible in the echoey chamber as the goblins furiously entered the fray with swords and magic. Marak yelled an instruction in a language Alma didn't recognize- goblin? Suddenly, he had picked her up, after releasing an enormous fireball at the soldiers in black. With long strides and the other goblins at his back, he rushed towards the water mirror and flung himself and Alma through. There was a sensation like having stepped through a bubble, followed by a curious, tickling warmth. Alma just had time to glance up and notice that they were outside and the stars were wrong before a lucky hit from a soldier who had followed them through sent Marak sprawling and Alma tumbling across the grass. Before she could get her bearings, two of the soldiers had grabbed her. She kicked furiously at them and tried to dodge their grasp, desperately trying to recall her Girl Scouts self-defense workshop. But that hadn't prepared her for two trained soldiers.

"Marak!" she screamed as they dragged her away. Even he was better than these soulless creatures that pretended to be human.

She heard him yell a curse and saw him fighting towards her, but before he could, the soldiers were running, running inhumanly fast despite their burden, and there were horses. She did successfully break the nose of the one trying to sling her over the horse and kick the other in a highly sensitive place (something she would look back on with great fondness in days to come) but it availed her little. The horse was spurred away from the battle, and Alma, choked with tears of fear and terrible rage at her own helplessness, cursed the impulse that had led her out the window.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: And this chapter is dedicated to my lovely beta, ShearViscosity! Thanks so much!

I'm going to try to update regularly now on Mondays. The chapters will probably get longer.

Once more, I love reviews!

**Chapter 5**

Aliane sat alone in her daughter's room. She worried away at the ends of her blonde hair, plaiting, unplaiting, curling it around her fingers. It was a nervous habit. At first she hadn't wanted to believe it. When she'd come early in the morning, intending to tell Alma to get up so they could go see the old Hall (a peace offering of sorts) and found her daughter gone, she had told herself that Alma had merely gone downstairs early for breakfast. When that failed, she told herself that Alma had gone somewhere to read or listen to music. A brief search of the Lodge failed as well. Then Aliane had decided that Alma had disobeyed her grounding and gone for a walk in the woods. So she'd waited for her to return.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally José had declared that he couldn't sit any longer, and they had both gone outside, searching up and down the trails nearest the Lodge, up to the tree circle, and into the town. No one had seen her. Several other Lodge guests and staff joined the search, without success. So they waited some more.

Eventually, Aliane and José yielded to the inevitable, to what they desperately didn't want to believe, and called the police. By this time it was very late afternoon. The search continued into the night and the following morning, meeting with nothing but the ashes of a forbidden bonfire in the woods, which were thoroughly examined by grim policemen who already feared the worst (thankfully, nothing in the fire proved unusual). Townspeople were questioned. The staff and guests were questioned. José had dropped a few hints about his status back in the US—fame had its uses. While the Riveras lost their anonymity, the police were more inclined to take the search for a missing tourist seriously when her father was at the top of the charts.

And yet, still nothing. So Aliane sat in silence, staring at the room. Alma hadn't taken anything. Not her books, not her iPod, no clothes or toiletries or anything to suggest she planned to go anywhere. And there was no sign of a struggle.

Thoughts surfaced; thoughts she wanted to hide from and bury. Memories of old stories, passed down through generations of her family—old dangers, old bargains, old enemies, old powers. Then there was the small cloth-wrapped bundle hidden in her suitcase. But the stories were _old_. No one had disappeared for two hundred years or more!

Despite these thoughts, she found herself leaving Alma's room and putting on her shoes. She heard the silence in the next room and tried not to cry. Her husband was always playing, always singing, always smiling, even when he was singing about doomed love and heartbreak. He sang even through their most difficult times, when Aliane had been struggling in her job as a lawyer and he had been unable to find anybody interested in recording his work. He never stopped playing. And now he was silent and frozen.

She walked slowly out of the Lodge and towards the town, not knowing her destination until she had arrived at the library. The owners of the Hall, the Winslow family, had donated their old records in the interests of preserving the history of the area. A few minutes and Aliane was sitting in front of them, carefully turning the pages of a diary almost two hundred years old. It had belonged to a woman called Celia Whitaker, and it related some rather extraordinary events. Aliane knew the story already- the mysterious disappearance of Kate and Emily Winslow. Even before them, there had been Annie Graham. Before her, Adele Roberts. There were even older cases as well, all mysteriously vanished, always at night, and the perpetrators never caught. Locals claimed that goblins were responsible for the disappearances.

Aliane clenched her fists. Unbidden, memories swam before her eyes. Her great-grandfather had spoken of goblins when she was seventeen, the last time she'd gone back to Egypt to see him before he died.

He'd always told stories, about how their family had once fought and enslaved monsters, about powerful demons who had given her ancestors magic. She'd been enthralled, cheering as the good magicians with their demon servants had beaten the ugly goblins and cut them up for spells, and eventually driven them away entirely. She'd loved the stories and had taken her inheritance seriously: learning the old language, studying the spells she couldn't use because she didn't have a goblin or a demon.

Once she had almost run off to England on a goblin hunt of her own, and when that failed, had nearly resorted to summoning her own demon. Her father had laughed indulgently, not believing her and thinking this phase would soon pass. However, her mother had been worried, warning her of terrible sacrifices in the past, and hinting at the astronomical price of power. Aliane hadn't listened until she had sat at her great-grandfather's bedside as he died, and seen his gentle brown eyes glow red and heard him cry out in a voice and language not his own. She'd seen the monstrous shadow on the wall.

Aliane had never touched magic again after that, and never taught Alma. She never wanted to look in the mirror and see dark brown replaced with red, or hear otherworldly laughter coming from her mouth, and never wanted to see her daughter follow that path.

She slammed the diary shut.

_Goblins_. Aliane had been afraid before, to use magic. Afraid for her life, her sanity, her very soul. But if goblins had returned to Hallow Hill, if they had stolen her daughter… nothing was too extreme. Aliane had no family left beyond her daughter and husband, and no goblin was going to take it away.

* * *

><p>Marak was utterly furious. The feathers on his head stood almost straight up in the air, his pointed teeth were fixed in a rather horrifying snarl, and his golden eyes were reduced to manic looking slits. The workroom was utter chaos. He decided to add to it a bit more by hurling a bowl across his workroom, where it shattered. Then he hurled two bottles after it, followed by a packet of powder that coated the mess in a layer of glittering dust. Finally he swept everything off the workroom table onto the floor, and gave a truly terrifying shriek of rage.<p>

"Finished?" asked his advisor, looking up from his chair in the corner of the room, where he had been reading.

"Bedros…" Marak growled.

"Well, I'm not here to tell you 'I told you so', even if saying it would certainly be quite appropriate. But if you're quite finished with your tantrum, may I _humbly_ suggest you go see your injured guards?" The withering tone from the old tutor had its desired effect on the Goblin King. He seemed to shrink a few inches, and the feathers and wild hair on his bony head fell flat.

"Yes, of course," he said, much more quietly. Bedros rose from his seat.

"How many did we lose?" he asked, softly.

"Twenty-two dead. The garrison we left on this side of the gateway never stood a chance—they were slaughtered. And there was Warda and... Istar."

Istar had been so young, barely eighteen, and so proud to be taken on a mission of such importance. Marak had had high hopes for him, a strong elvish cross. Even his elf mother had been fiercely proud of her goblin son.

"And almost everyone is injured." he continued. "Necalli still hasn't woken. Enki said she needs time to recover, so he won't wake her up."

Marak balled his hands into fists again.

"Bedros, they knew! How did one of their spies get so close to us? How could they march up a host of a hundred human soldiers and take a garrison of twenty alert goblins by surprise?"

"We were in their territory. The only reasons they didn't know sooner were sheer luck and their human spies' lazy incompetence. If they'd sent a troll spy we wouldn't have even gotten the chance to open the gateway before they attacked."

"But that doesn't explain the host. An army doesn't move silently, and the goblins that were on watch are—_were_— some of my best. They shouldn't have been surprised."

"The Troll King has been getting bolder. He's the most powerful they've had in generations, and the most clever. I wouldn't be surprised if he had found some way of making soldiers invisible to goblin eyes."

"Well, I'm not going to let him do this again. If he has silent and invisible soldiers, then we'll have them too." Marak sighed. "At least when goblins fought elves they had the decency to be _visible._" He hesitated, and then looked at Bedros.

"The girl?" guessed the advisor.

"She has a name," said the king, traces of anger returning to his voice. "Her name is Alma. And she may be dead because of me."

"They've picked up traces of horses at the edge of the battlefield. No bodies. She may still be alive, though she'll be in the heart of the trolls' fortress by now." Bedros added the last part quickly, afraid of what the king would be thinking.

Marak nodded.

"We'll get her back then. Soon. But now I will see my guard, and speak to the families of those who died."

Bedros followed his king out of the destroyed workroom. He was worried because Marak was worried. Marak Hawkeye, like most goblin kings, possessed confidence in abundance, but he had clearly been shaken by the loss of so many guardsmen. Knowing him, he'd have another highly ambitious plan out by nightfall, one even more insane and with less chance of success, just in an attempt to make up for previous losses, and get back the human girl he'd become fixated on for some reason.

* * *

><p>Alma lay curled up on the stone floor of the cell, shaking slightly with the effort of suppressing the wild sobs she desperately wanted to release. But after the guard at the entrance to the tall, forbidding, fortress slapped her for struggling, she had sworn to herself that she'd not give them the satisfaction of making her cry. It had been tested barely ten minutes later, when she'd gotten her first sight of a troll. Despite his beauty, he was so utterly cold and alien that Alma just wanted to dissolve into tears of fright.<p>

And now she hadn't seen anything resembling a human face for almost two days. The guards didn't count—they all looked to be of the dead-but-still-walking variety— the same as the soldiers who had captured her. Or rescued her? She'd been in the company of monsters!

Goblins, Marak had said. She shuddered at the memory of the cloaks coming off, seeing the deformities— the bony heads and pointed ears, the animal features, and especially Marak! The feathers, the horrible pointed teeth, those slitted golden eyes! But yet… terrifying though his predatory eyes had been, they didn't seem to hold the same…_inhumanity _as these new creatures, beautiful as they were.

Alma had waited and wished for an adventure her entire life. She'd read probably hundreds of books about people who discovered they were special, or the heir to a secret legacy. She'd left out milk and honey for the fairies, made up her own spells; invented secret languages; rubbed every lamp she came across; thoroughly examined old stones and jewelry in case of unforeseen magical powers, and cried on her eleventh birthday when she'd received no letter from Hogwarts. She'd even imagined being kidnapped and having to outwit her jailers.

Somehow, cold stone floors hadn't entered into it. Neither had the terrible food that there wasn't enough of; nor the stinking toilet in the corner; nor having nothing to wash with and no comb for her hair; nor guards who wouldn't even look at or talk to her. She always had friends in her imaginings. Wonderful friends with special powers—who were funny and exciting and smart—nothing like the dull, stupid people at school who she had little time for. She had certainly never imagined being cold and lonely and hungry all by herself, locked in a cell who-knows-where.

Her reverie was cut short by a troll rattling the bars of her cell and opening it, beckoning to her to come out. She followed him, through pillared corridors and galleries with tall vaulted ceilings, and massive rooms with scenes of battles carved on the gray stone walls. All the architecture was austere and forbidding, and the furniture was so Spartan as to be almost nonexistent. When there was a rare chair, bench, or other piece of furnishing, it was invariably of dark wood and of an unadorned and very sharply rectangular design. The only ornamentation was occasional dark tapestries, all depicting battles or hunting. Alma tried to look closer at them as they passed, unsure about what exactly the prey depicted was. She was almost certain it ran on two legs.

They emerged into the largest gallery yet, a massive hall lined with carved pillars of black stone. Alma stifled a gasp when she saw the figure at the far end, seated on his massive throne. The guard prodded her in the back, pushing her forward. She stumbled slightly, but managed to walk up to the dais with something that might have vaguely resembled dignity, if a person was in a very dim room and squinted.

"So this is the human."

Alma looked up in surprise. The voice was soft and gentle, not the ringing death-knell of a voice she'd been expecting from the tall, dark-robed figure in the brilliant, spiky crown. She nodded, unsure of what else to do.

"Leave us." The guard bowed and left. The Troll King rose, letting Alma see his full height. He stepped down off his throne, and bent slightly to look at her face. "And what is your name, little human?"

"Um, Alma." Then, she remembered her manners. "Er… your majesty."

Something about him made her very conscious of her manners, and even more conscious of the fact that she hadn't changed clothes, combed her hair, or really washed in two days.

"Alma." The troll sounded as though he was tasting the word. "I'm sorry for your treatment up to this point. We couldn't be sure where you came from, or if you might even be a goblin. Some of them look surprisingly ordinary."

With every word he spoke Alma found her memories of her imprisonment fading. By the time he reached the end of the sentence, she wondered what ill treatment the king could be referring to. She'd been treated well, of course.

"There is nothing to apologize for."

The Troll King smiled.

"And now, I hope you'll be my guest for a few days?"

Alma hesitated. There was something…

"I want to go home!" She startled herself with the sudden burst of feeling, and then realized that yes; she did want to go home, more than anything.

The Troll King looked taken aback for a fraction of a second, and then his smile returned.

"Of course, of course. But you realize we have to repair the gateway. It was damaged in the battle."

"Gateway? Where am I? And why were you attacking the goblins?" Memory began to return. A guard had slapped her! How had she forgotten?

"This may come as a slight shock, but you are no longer in the world you knew. You've crossed into another."

"What, another dimension? Like parallel universes?" Memory became less important than shock.

"Essentially." The king wasn't sure what she was talking about, but at this delicate stage it was best to appear omniscient.

Alma thought back to being pulled into the water wall by Marak, and looking up and seeing the wrong stars. She was no astronomer, finding Orion being the limit of her abilities, but she'd still known on some level that the sky was _wrong_. She nodded slowly.

"And… the goblins?"

"You should be glad we found you when we did. I shudder to think what would have happened if we hadn't."

"Why? What would they have done to me?"

"Doesn't your kind have stories?"

"But they're just stories! Those books in the village, talking about goblins stealing human brides—" She choked in horrified realization.

"Yes, I'm afraid that is what they intended."

"But… but how can they… how…. _why_?"

"Oh, there's not really much agreement on the subject. Perhaps there are no goblin women. Perhaps they are just evil. It's unclear. But it does happen. I've heard frightful stories about what goes on under their hill—they live underground, you know. Any woman they bring down there will never see the sunlight again. In your world, sometimes they took elf women for their magic, though they still often took human women. They almost hunted the elves to extinction that way." His voice was smooth, soft, worming its way into her mind and staying there.

"There were elves?"

"Oh yes. There are elves here too, and the goblins still raid them. Now I think there are possibly as many as twenty elf women living under the hill, raising their monstrous children. It's an awful place, as you can imagine. Stifling, with no moving air, dark, damp, cold, with little food save what lives in the caverns—bats, rats, even insects."

Alma shuddered. A small part of her brain asked why she was listening and believing everything this alien creature said. The larger part of her brain told the smaller part to shut up.

"And I… what would have happened to me?"

"You were with their King. I know he is as yet unmarried, so you might have been intended to fill that role. The King's Wife is very important to the goblins. She must bear the next heir, so she is never allowed to have any power beyond that. The King keeps her close and locked away. It's said that the ceremony involves… knives. The unfortunate woman will bear the scars and marks of her servitude for the rest of her life. And the goblin kings love experimentation. Even the brides of other goblins aren't safe. They are kept with locked doors, spells and potions, raising the next crop of monsters for the rest of their short, unhappy lives."

Alma found herself imagining graceful, kind, wise, selfless elves somewhat influenced by her viewing of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies being hunted by despicable, evil beings with claws and fangs. A mental image of Marak became larger, darker, more menacing, his pleasant baritone voice replaced by a roar, his golden eyes becoming harsh and altogether diabolic.

"But who are you? What are you? You fight the goblins, but how did you know to come to the gateway?"

"I'm the Troll King. And I think you must be tired. Probably hungry as well, and wanting a bath."

Suddenly Alma was all of those things, especially the part about the bath. She was embarrassed enough about her own lack of adequate bathing that she forgot her other questions.

"Yes, thank you."

The Troll King called out, and a guard led Alma away, to food and a bath and clean clothes, and a room with a comfortable bed and a door that locked only on the outside.

* * *

><p>After the human girl was gone, the Troll King sat back in his throne and laughed.<p>

It had been so easy! Oh, poor Marak had thought he'd had an easy capture. And he got credit for nearly talking the little fool through the gateway and into the goblin kingdom under her own power.

The Troll King was good at reading people, especially humans. In Alma he'd seen pride, pride in her intelligence, and a question- 'why are people all so stupid?' She was a romantic at heart, raised on fairy tales; eager to believe in the ugly, evil goblins and the beautiful trolls who had rescued her. Some more flattery, careful lies and half-truths and she would be a troll in all but name, ready to do anything her king ordered.

Humans. So fallible and weak, and so endearingly willing to make monsters out of anything. Not that they needed any help in the case of the goblins. The Troll King curled his lip in distaste.

Yes, the human girl would be turned. And how he'd love seeing the look on the Goblin King's face when he came to rescue his bride… and she killed him.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Here is Chapter 6! And I did it while studying for chemistry, so I'm rather proud of that. Thanks again to my lovely beta!**  
><strong>

**Chapter 6**

Marak entered the infirmary, intending to speak to his military commander. She was awake, finally, after three days. However, before he could reach her bed, he was stopped by Enki, the goblin in charge of the infirmary.

"Please, Marak, Necalli is at a delicate stage. Don't upset her. And please don't encourage her to get up; I'm having enough trouble just getting her to take her medicine!" The goblin man's dog ears quivered, and his elvish blue eyes were wide with indignation.

"Why won't she take it?"

"She says it tastes terrible, which I assure you it does _not_, and that it makes her sleepy, which it does, and should. She needs to rest, and if you start her on some project now her recovery will be severely compromised!"

"Enki, I need her, and I need her alert. Can't you give her something else?"

"_No._"

"Then I'll have to do something."

"Marak, this is the fourth time you've healed her in two months!" Enki nearly wailed. "It's not healthy for her to be healed by the King's magic every time she has a serious wound. Colds and coughs are one thing, even cuts and broken bones, but you've been healing her from infected, deep wounds. Sometimes it's better to let the body and its own natural magic take care of things by themselves, or she'll never build up immunities to disease. You're only making her more vulnerable, especially since Troll weapons are nearly _always_ covered in something nasty. Not to mention the increasingly dangerous missions."

"Are you concerned merely as a doctor for his patient Enki, or is there more to this?"

Enki flushed, his silvery skin darkening.

Do I have to answer that?"

Marak laughed.

"No, you don't, but I'm still going to her."

Enki grabbed his arm, then hastily let go when Marak glared at him.

"Just… please think about what I said."

The Goblin King nodded briefly and strode into the room. Necalli was sitting up in bed. She brightened when she saw Marak, smiling with all her many sharp teeth, though Marak felt his heart sink slightly. She was better, certainly, but her normally dark green scales were pale and flaking off, and it was out of season for her to be shedding. Her orange eyes, though bright, had deep green, almost black circles beneath them. The wound in her shoulder was hidden with layers of bandages, but he could see that it still pained her.

"Marak, please tell that little buffoon I'm well enough to leave and to stop taking that horrible concoction. A potion that tastes like something a dog threw up can't be good for me."

"And have you tasted anything a dog threw up lately for purposes of comparison?"

She made a face at him.

"Necalli, Enki does know what he's doing. Though in this case, what he's doing won't work quickly enough for our purposes. I need to heal you."

She sighed in relief.

"But you still need to take your medicine."

"Marak—"

"That's an order, Commander."

She scowled, but nodded briefly.

"Now why do you have to heal me?"

"I have a plan, or at least the beginnings of one."

"I like the sound of that."

"Tell me, Necalli, how many human books have you read? The ones that were brought from the Old World."

"A fair number."

"Did you read the _Aeneid_?"

* * *

><p>Alma sat beside the Troll King at the heavily laden banquet table as she had for the previous three nights. The food was rather strange—many trolls enjoyed raw meat, for instance. Generally it was beef or goat meat, though at the last banquet there had been a wild boar. Thankfully, they seemed to know that raw meat is usually not to the taste of a human, and so everything she was served was cooked. Vegetables and fruits were in short supply. The King had explained that trolls were not particularly fond of farming, leaving that task for servants to do. Alma had asked about the human servants then, a subject she realized he had avoided for the first two days.<p>

"This world is not particularly kind to your race Alma," he'd said, taking a drink of wine. She'd been offered the wine and refused it. "There are the goblins, of course, and sadly fighting between humans and goblins and trolls and goblins left deep wounds. You have no innate magic, you see."

Alma had been somewhat disappointed by that pronouncement. He'd noticed and given her a small smile.

"Yes, I'm afraid it's true; though in your world, I understand humans are the dominant species. It would seem some forces can counteract magic."

"But... the human servants?"

"It's the only way for them to survive. They're paid and treated well, and it's far better than trying to survive in the wild. I've heard some humans managed to find their way to warmer climates, but it's largely heresy. Some people even say the goblins trade with humans from beyond the seas, but they generally say that after they've had a few cups of wine. So most humans stay, and it's a harsh world. The winters here are wilder and colder than you would know, and the soil is poor in this forest. It's difficult to scrape a living. Even the elves struggle; I heard that they entered into a treaty with the goblins' last King, giving him a bride in exchange for food."

Alma was not to know that the elves had only needed food because the trolls had burned down a large section of forest and driven away game for miles. She almost asked how the servants were paid since there was no evidence of coin or any kind of money anywhere, but the question seemed to fall through the cracks in her brain.

"Why aren't there any elves here?"

The Troll King snorted.

"Catch an elf living inside. They're proud—they only live with goblins when abducted. We won't force them to live here."

The last elf slave of the trolls had finally succeeded in her suicide attempt three months earlier.

Alma now sighed. The Troll King always answered her questions, though sometimes he seemed to be concealing things. In addition, sometimes she had a burning question to ask, only to forget it the moment he smiled at her. On occasion she would remember the question later and curse herself for forgetting, but other times she would fruitlessly wrack her brains for hours and not remember at all.

She wanted to go home, of course she did. The King said the gateway was being repaired. He'd been very courteous about it, she thought. He was always interested in her opinions, which Alma had a great many of. Over the course of the three days, he'd managed to tease varied information out of her, from her favorite color (green), to what annoyed her most about her mother (the endless lectures). Almost every view she held met with approval, and he frequently praised her intelligence, citing her as a credit to humans. Alma had the vague idea that there was something offensive about that. Three days earlier she probably would have slapped him, but three days in the company of the Troll King was having its effect.

Even thoughts of home were steadily fading. She had to concentrate to remind herself that she needed to go home, that her parents were worried, that she had a previous life. Something about that rang warning bells in her head—Alma had read many books concerning brainwashed heroines—but she ignored them. After all, she was much cleverer than those silly creatures. She would never be silly enough to fall for any of those tricks.

In truth, life with the trolls held everything Alma thought she wanted. She was rarely bored, what with exploring the fortress and the various entertainments. Troll music was one of the things she enjoyed most, sounding like traditional Japanese _koto _music had a love child with some Irish folk songs. She had fine clothes that were made from spiders' silk. Trolls kept large spiders for the purposes of silk making. Much to Alma's disappointment, none of the spiders were above the size of a small dog, and all were thoroughly domesticated.

There were also servants, and everyone treated her with a certain amount of deference. This would mean rather a lot to any girl of seventeen years, most of whom assume the world revolves around them, anyway. Alma was no exception, and had the added disadvantage of being intelligent and knowing it. She was used to a certain amount of awe from her peers, along with the assumption she would always do well and have plenty of money. Having servants seemed the continuation of the natural order of things. It was for this reason she didn't ask the name of her assigned maid, notice her many bruises, realize the girl never spoke to her, or see the ill-disguised contempt on the girl's face when she looked at her mistress.

* * *

><p>José Rivera stared into space. His guitar was on his lap, but he did not play it. Aliane had come to him earlier, asking if he needed anything. Their daughter being the one thing in the world they both needed was left unsaid. However, some semblance of doing <em>something<em> was better than the endless waiting.

The police were still searching for Alma; examining the footprints around the bonfire, which seemed to end at a sheer wall of rock. There had been talk of dredging the lake, but somehow it had been agreed that it wasn't a good idea.

Now Aliane was gone as well. She'd been going in and out all day, once snapping at him when he tried to see what she was removing from her suitcase. After that, she'd come in only that once to ask if he'd needed anything, and then vanished again. Even through his fog of grief and exhaustion, José recognized that she was behaving oddly.

_As oddly as anyone who's lost a daughter_, he reminded himself. Still, he'd seen Aliane stricken with grief before, and he'd seen her deal with crises before. She was different now. She had answered the questions of the police with barely concealed impatience, and barely took any interest in the search parties when he had assumed she would want to take full control. Instead, she was hurrying about on secretive errands that he didn't need to know about. Not that it was the first time.

He knew there were things in Aliane's past that she hadn't told him, and that her family on her mother's side was…odd. Eventually he decided that she would tell him when and if she was ready, and it wasn't his place to judge her. Now he was wondering if that was the right decision.

Half-formed conspiracy theories swam through José's mind, the imagination that had blessed his career as a musician working against him. Instantly, he was ashamed of himself. He trusted his wife; he always had and wasn't about to start doubting her now. He was just frightened, tired, and trying to avoid blaming himself for dragging them out here.

Still.

José got up and wandered over to the suitcases. Aliane's was not locked. It was almost empty since she had moved her clothes to the drawers in the room. He felt about inside, with no idea what he was looking for. His hand briefly caught on something—a small, hidden catch. When he pressed it, a small section of the suitcase just above the wheels opened. Inside was a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He removed it, uncertain of what he would find.

The cloth revealed several small boxes and José opened them. In one box, there were several small statues of what looked like mummies made of turquoise. _Shabtis_, he thought, remembering visiting museums with Aliane when they were dating.

The next box held some odd looking jewelry, and José's sketchy knowledge of Egyptian culture, largely acquired to impress his wife, failed him. He did recognize some golden symbols which were meant for protection.

He opened the third box, and swallowed. The box contained _real _mummies of birds. Upon that realization, he closed the box very quickly.

The fourth box gave him a bad feeling. He swiftly opened it, revealing several small, tightly rolled scrolls. There was an empty space in the box for one more; presumably Aliane had taken it with her. He removed one and unrolled it. Written on the paper—written by hand, not printed, he noted—were hieroglyphs, drawn in red and black. Something about the paper bothered him. It seemed malevolent, almost _hungry_. José hurriedly put it back in its place.

_Stupid_, he chided himself. _It's a piece of paper! _

Still, it bothered him. Stories from his childhood and his moralizing grandmother stirred in his memory. José was not superstitious, at least, in the same way a religious man would not consider himself superstitious. José was not particularly religious, but he firmly held to the vague belief that there was far more in the universe than science could explain. He was the one who had built fairy houses in the garden with his daughter and had told her fantastic stories that he himself half-believed.

Now he saw magic. He refused to admit to himself that it was magic because he was very tired and his basic faith in the world had been severely shaken in the past three days.

However, despite his refusal to admit it, he did know. It was not in his heart that the hidden knowledge resided; the heart had quite enough to do with the pumping of blood throughout his body. Instead, the knowledge chose to manifest as an odd sensation somewhere within the vicinity of his liver. Unfortunately, like most people, José had little idea of where his liver was and what it was supposed to feel like at the best of times, so he ignored the sensation. Feeling incredibly guilty, he then returned the cloth bundle to its proper place in the suitcase.

* * *

><p>Aliane placed the scroll and small bird mummy back in her purse. It had been a simple spell; very small, and the bird mummy had been enough to power it. The spell revealed the presence of goblins. She'd done it all the time when she was younger, hoping against hope that the telltale dark spots on the ground would appear and she could catch one. Now she stood with her worst fears confirmed: the forest floor before the cliff face was completely black.<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I was in a bad mood when writing this. So I was mean to Alma. She'll get better soon, though, I promise!

Chapter again dedicated to AiramS, and as always I thank my lovely beta!

*subtle hint* I love reviews!

**Chapter 7**

The conspirators met in a dark, dusty back hallway behind the kitchens. The proximity to an area where hard work was being done made discovery by other trolls unlikely, and the timing (just while dinner was being prepared) made discovery by humans similarly remote. It also offered multiple exits, just in case. Few places were safe for such meetings- the Troll King had a terrifying instinct for treachery. Even legitimate methods were not without great danger. He'd been challenged to defend his rule three times during his reign, and twice the challengers had died before they could meet him in battle, killed by the King's nervous supporters. The third challenger had been displayed in the Council Chamber and atop the gates of the fortress, and had finally been delivered to those the King thought were somewhat less loyal than they might have been. There were many of them. No one had received a recognizable piece bigger than a finger.

"Have you spoken to others?" The speaker was a young troll woman, tall and graceful, but with a physique that suggested long hours in the weapons yard.

"Not yet," said Ranulf. "It'll take some time before we can be sure of others, and longer before we can risk speaking to anyone important. I'm not interested in dying too soon."

"What about the human servants? Surely they have more reason than most to hate the King."

"I would not advise it, my lady," said Keir, briefly adjusting his tunic. Appearance was important, even when discussing treason. "Most of them are so beaten down and afraid that they would turn on us the minute we raised the subject of even mildly disliking the King. And they can't do much damage against trained soldiers, anyway, especially not trolls."

"Really? I've heard rumors about groups within the servants…"

"Pure speculation and wishful thinking," he replied, smoothly. Keir had the sort of angelic face that most people would trust if he said the sky was green. For all that she was quite young and new to the game of espionage, Lady Margret had lived long enough in the troll court to distrust it immediately. She looked at him suspiciously before changing the subject.

"Any word on the plans of the Goblin King?"

"He's building something. Messages between him and the dwarves, payments received. We don't know what it is yet." Ranulf looked thoughtful. "Could be a weapon, could be something we've never see before. Whatever it is, it probably has something to do with the human girl."

"The human?" Lady Margret frowned. "Our king's new pet? Why doesn't the goblin just cut his losses and marry an elf?"

"Goblins don't think like that. He brought her here, so now he thinks he's responsible for her. Once a goblin's fixed on someone, they don't let go easy."

"Will he attack to get her back?"

Ranulf looked to Keir, who nodded. He'd made something of a study of the Goblin King.

"I believe he will. Of course, the goblins do not have nearly enough fighters to launch an assault in our territory. But he's quite clever- the sort who _would _launch a suicidal full-scale attack precisely because he knows we know he doesn't have the strength to do so. It could even work, if we prepare for subterfuge and not a full assault. Or he could do something else entirely."

"I think, then, whatever he does and whatever we may find out, the King does not need to know what it is," said Margret, slowly. "After all, what sort of Troll King cannot predict by himself the actions of a bestial _goblin_?"

Her co-conspiritors nodded agreement.

"Until we meet again?"

They smiled at each other, the mirthless smiles of people who know they are playing a very dangerous game, with infinite stakes and an opponent who already has the entire board in his possession.

* * *

><p>Bedros watched the construction from above, his pointed ears twitching slightly with anxiety. It was called the Device, which he thought was far too innocent. 'Bringer of Death' might be more appropriate. Or 'Machine of Doom'. However, he'd been overruled.<p>

_Only to be expected from goblins, _he thought, conveniently ignoring the logical failure with that pronouncement.

He looked back at the Device. The dwarf goblins were clambering all over it, hammering, polishing, setting stones into place, bending wire, greasing axles, raising gleaming sheets of metal into the air with magic.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Bedros almost jumped over the edge of the balcony upon hearing the military commander's voice in his ear. Necalli had a way of appearing behind a person suddenly that the advisor disliked immensely.

"Yes, very impressive for something that will bring death and destruction down on us all! This will never work!"

"It's quite funny, really, how often you say that just before a great success."

She grinned, and suddenly he was furious.

"Tell that to Warda, or Istar, or any of the twenty-two guardsmen who _died_ four days ago! Or had you forgotten?"

It was a low, cruel blow, and he regretted it the moment he said it. Necalli's face looked like an iron door that has just been slammed shut. She turned without another word and stalked away.

Bedros sighed. He shouldn't have said that, but Necalli's cavalier attitude and ability to seemingly switch off her emotions in favor of new plans grated on him. The Advisor was a very strong elf cross, and he looked it, with blue skin and white eyes and no animal features. He also spent a great deal of time dealing with the elves for the King. Nobody could doubt he was a goblin or the attendant unwavering loyalty to his sovereign, and he would certainly never imagine leaving the goblin kingdom, but sometimes he wished he didn't have to actually _talk_ to the other goblins. And Necalli was indisputably _very _goblin, with only the merest drop of elf blood, and had certainly not been above lording her pure lineage and goblin looks over him when they were both pages.

He was interrupted in his reverie by the arrival of Marak, who came striding into the room, full of the manic energy only a new plan could provide.

"What do you think?" The King's eyes gleamed.

"I rather think you're insane."

"Bedros…"

"You've left so much up to chance with this! How do you know the Troll King will react the way you need him to? What if the girl is already dead?"

"You said yourself during planning it's likely he'll want to gloat, and that he's probably not killed her yet. I'm merely trusting your judgment, Advisor."

"And had you heard the _rest _of my judgment you'd know I thought this sort of attack is far too risky! Why did you appoint me to be your advisor if you never listen to me?"

"I do listen to you, but not in matters of military strategy. You don't like confrontation, you do what you can to ensure that things stay as they are. Simply put, you think like an elf. I need goblin advice when I'm planning to fight."

He stepped away to speak to the dwarves, not noticing the other man's stricken face.

* * *

><p>Alma twirled slightly in front of the mirror, enjoying her new dress. It was bright green, which she rather fancied matched her eyes. The Troll King had told her he was sure she'd look beautiful, and upon seeing the result she was in total agreement. In the mirror she saw an elegant, princess-like figure in leafy green, accented perfectly with silver jewelry.<p>

In truth, the dress was fairly awful. For starters, it was too small. The almost neon green did nothing for her eyes, and the floor-length, simple cut made her look short and wide. The silver jewelry looked cheap and made her head seem too large for the rest of her. However, Alma had been in the troll kingdom for almost two weeks, and the King's flattery had made a powerful impression on her. So she failed to notice anything wrong, not even that the dress really wasn't supposed to be skin-tight, that the silver was already tarnished, or even the look of mingled exasperation and pity the maid gave her.

She'd stopped asking about going home days before. Her parents' faces were dreamy, faint images not at all connected with the present. She had even stopped asking for books. Trolls didn't seem to hold with books or reading- they kept cursory records, and that was it. There was no written language- they used English letters phonetically. At first this had bothered Alma, but now she just didn't see the _point_. Who needed to read? It was silly.

Now, though, there was a book on the bed.

Alma stared at it. Where had that come from? She glanced at the maid, but she was cleaning in a different part of the room. She stepped forward, guardedly. It was a very worn book, very old. The pages were yellowed, the binding was falling apart, and the title was barely legible. _Fairy Tales_. She'd… liked those once, hadn't she? As if in a dream, Alma opened it, looking through the stories. _Rapunzel, Cinderella, Faithful John… Beauty and the Beast. _She stared at the page. A faint memory surfaced, a gentle, lightly accented voice reading to her… her father.

"Dad…" She'd loved _Beauty and the Beast,_ and had made him read it to her probably hundreds of times. This was a slightly different version, but the story was the same.

What would her dad think of where she was?

Alma felt like she was on the edge of something. The words of the Troll King warred with the words of her father, back and forth inside her head, fighting tooth and nail. More memories surfaced, memories of her father and mo-

There was a knock at the door, and the voice from the book evaporated. Alma shook her head slightly, trying to remember what had happened. What was that voice she'd heard in her head? Who was that? No matter, it was time to go down to the banquet. She shut the book, seized her wrap and left the room, trying to feel like she wasn't running away and ignoring the lingering sense of unease.

* * *

><p>Had Alma stayed in the room, she would have seen the disappointed look on the maid's face. Had she asked, she would had known the maid's name was Edwina and that she had been the only survivor when the trolls attacked her camp. Alma would had learned a lot of things about the trolls and what they usually did to human prisoners, and how much reason Edwina had to hate the Troll King with every fiber of her being. But she hadn't asked, so she didn't know.<p>

Edwina sighed and leaned against the bed, allowing herself a rare moment to rest. She'd hoped the book would work, and it had been incredibly dangerous to get. Just reading would make her lose a meal. Having a book would get her beaten. Having a human book from the other world… she shuddered, not willing to follow the thought to its logical conclusion. For a moment it had seemed the book was working. The girl had started to remember things, she was sure of it! Only a few moments more and she might have snapped out of the Troll King's control, and Edwina would have had a valuable ally, one with the King's favor. She really should have waited until nightfall to show her the book, but she'd been so excited at managing to lay hands on it, and so sure it would only take a few seconds. Now she couldn't risk bringing it out again, or Alma might report it. She might be rather silly, especially under the King's influence, but she was not entirely stupid. She'd know who put it there.

There was a soft knock at the door. Edwina opened it, revealing three other human servants standing nervously in the corridor. She considered asking them if anyone had seen them, and decided it was pointless with this group. She beckoned them in quickly, and shut the door. Almost as soon as she'd shut it, there was another knock. For almost half an hour they arrived in twos and threes, more than twenty in all, looking over their shoulders and moving like mice.

_Mice,_ thought Edwina, with a certain amount of disgust. _Creeping, little creatures, terrified of squeaking too loud. That's what the trolls have done to us. _Still, they were all she had, and she wasn't about to leave anyone behind. Edwina knew she could just escape on her own if she tried, but one look at the frightened faces around the circle, one thought of the hundreds more who would be enslaved after they were gone, and she knew she never would. Besides, mice had certain advantages. The humans probably knew the fortress better than their masters. They cooked the food, made the clothes, swept the floors. They knew where everything was, including the massive iron sticks used in the laundry, the knives in the kitchen, the rat poison. They knew when the patrols were, who was on them, and which guards liked to play dice instead of actually guarding. They knew which doors squeaked, which were magically sealed, and which needed a key, and all about the twisty hallways in the bowels of the fortress. Nobody notices the mice. All it takes is for them to realize how much they know.

Edwina glanced around the circle, making a mental head count. All were present. She rose, feeling a sharp ache in her gut as she was met with twenty-three hopeful stares.

"The book didn't work. Or rather, it was working, but we were interrupted before it could get much of a hold on her."

Disappointed mutters.

"We may have another chance. There's something else that I have yet to try-"

There was another knock on the door. It was quiet, but an _authoritative _kind of quiet. Slowly, one of the servants by the door walked over and opened it. Keir stepped into the room. In the presence of a troll, the atmosphere was suddenly hostile, though Edwina felt a certain amount of relief now that she was no longer the recipient of those stares.

"Well?" she asked, fighting down her instinctive revulsion.

"We have a new friend. A friend who can challenge the throne and is sympathetic to your cause."

Edwina refused to let herself be drawn in with the excited murmurs around her. She had also felt a flutter of hope, but this was Keir. No troll could be trusted, and especially not him. While the rest of the group began discussing the new turn of events, she slipped over to his side.

"When you say 'sympathetic to our cause', does this mean the challenger actually wants us freed or that you've never raised the subject?"

"You are far to suspicious."

"It's my job."

"Your job is to scrub floors and look after brats, not question me."

"We're putting lives at risk based on your information, Keir. You've helped us in the past, but don't pretend you really care or that you wouldn't betray us in an instant if it stopped being convenient."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Watch your tongue, my dear. It wouldn't hurt you to be a bit nicer to your only ally."

Edwina bit back the angry reply she wanted to make. He was right- it would do her little good to antagonize him, and he had the means of breaking their small rebellion in an instant.

"I'm sorry. I'm tired."

"Ah, the brat?"

"Yes, the brat. Though I nearly got her out of it this time."

Edwina clenched her fists in the memory of how close she'd been.

"Ah, well. You may not need her soon, not with a challenger."

"So who is the challenger?"

"She's young, noble, and quite intelligent. That's all you need to know. How did you get through to the brat?"

"It didn't work. That's all _you_ need to know."

They smiled at each other briefly. Or rather, Edwina smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. Keir's face had certainly formed the approximate shape of a smile, but the overall effect was far more predatory.

"I don't suppose you'd consider-"

His hand was creeping around her waist.

"_No._ And won't Ranulf be jealous?"

Keir jerked back as though she'd slapped him. Reminders of that kind almost always worked. The only thing that would be more effective was a bucket of ice water. Edwina didn't know or care to know if the rumors were actually true, but they were useful on occasion.

"One day pulling that on me won't work."

Now she really did smile.

"Maybe not. But until that day…"

She waved in a 'go-away-before-I-really-slap-you' gesture.

He spoke to a few other people in the room before leaving. Edwina noted with approval that everyone was wary of him. After all, there was no sense in trusting a troll.

* * *

><p>Aliane walked back and forth in front of the cliff face, which was finally clear after two weeks of police sweeping back and forth. She'd tried shouting and minor summoning spells, but no goblins had appeared. Now she was convinced that the goblins had taken a route underground to wherever their new home was. Clearly they had gone through the cliff face- the tracks showed that much- but they couldn't be there anymore. No goblin would ignore a sorceress outside his kingdom.<p>

So now she had decided to resort to this. It was a minor summoning, the only price being one small life. This weak entity couldn't afford to be picky. She glanced back at where she'd traced the circle in the ground, with the bound chicken clucking quietly in the center, and shuddered. When she was younger this wouldn't have been a problem, but now the idea of killing a creature in cold blood to power a spell was giving her chills.

_Stop it,_ she told herself. _For God's sake, it's just a chicken! It won't even feel a thing!_

She stepped inside the circle, and hesitated again.

_It's not for God's sake that I'm going this, is it? _Aliane was not truly religious, but summoning a demon, even a minor one, is generally enough to cause a certain amount of soul-searching. _Well, I _am _doing it for a worthy cause, _she reasoned._ If God has a problem with me finding my daughter, He can damn well wait until after she's safe and then smite me with lightning for all I care._

With that in mind, Aliane knelt and began the ritual. It began with chanting from the scroll in front of her, the chant growing steadily louder as the wind began to pick up. She slowly moved her hands over the objects in front of her; scroll, knife, bowl, shabti, chicken. The wind was howling by now, and she took a moment to push her hair out of her eyes. With one fluid motion accompanied by a shout, she took the knife and cut the chicken's throat, collecting the blood in the bowl. Taking up the knife and dipping it in the blood, ignoring her rebellious stomach, she traced symbols in blood outside her circle. Finally, she laid the bowl in front of her, in another, smaller circle, and chanted the spell again. There was a small thunderclap and a brilliant flash of light. When Aliane opened her eyes, there was a very small crocodile in the circle in front of her, its snout buried in the bloody bowl.

Aliane waited for it to finish, fighting to conceal the elation she felt. She'd done it! She hadn't been sure she would still be able to summon after so many years. Much depended on the conviction and strength of the summoner, and she'd felt grievously lacking in both departments.

Finally, the crocodile demon finished its meal, and looked at her. She didn't let it speak, knowing the danger that posed. Small demons often served larger ones, and she couldn't let this one tempt her into a much harsher bargain with an entity she wouldn't be able to control. Quickly, she cut her hand, luring the demon to her with blood. The moment it touched her skin, she snapped another word. The crocodile dissolved into smoke, which seemed to dissipate into her body. In an instant, sweet power filled her.

Aliane had never experimented with drugs in her youth- she'd already experienced something better. No heroin or ecstasy could compete with the feeling of demon magic under the skin. She could feel every vein in her body, all of them pulsing with what felt like cold fire. She could feel her nervous system desperately trying to cope, with electrical signals flying from one end of her spine to the other. She could feel the demon inside her. It was like being Hyde after years of Jekyll: there were no limits, no inhibitions; she could do _anything_.

It took some time before she mastered herself. Many a sorcerer had strayed down that path, she knew. The power was so wonderfully addicting; you wanted more, you _needed _more. They summoned stronger and stronger demons, until one day a demon offered them everything- eternal power, eternal access to that dizzying place, and it only needed a soul in return. At that point, some would falter. Only the most powerful, or perhaps the most foolish accepted, becoming great sorcerers who conquered nations and built new civilizations in their own images. They walked the earth like gods, ignoring the reminders that their souls were not their own. Then, years later when they died, there would be a monstrous shadow on the wall, and the sound of laughter, and perhaps the faintest of screams as a soul was lost forever.

She'd seen it, and couldn't afford it. Now, Aliane breathed deep and strode towards the cliff face, hands extended. She was rewarded with groaning deep within the rock. There had been warding spells on it, powerful ones, but they hadn't been renewed for two hundred years. A dark opening appeared in the wall. With a deep breath, she stepped forward into the mirror chamber. There were tracks here, large and small. She followed them into the corridor of black stone, creating light with a snap of her fingers.

"I can't let you through."

She jumped slightly.

"Hello?"

"Hello. I can't let you through."

It took Aliane a moment to realize the voice was coming from the iron door at the end of the passage.

"Oh, you can't?" she said, stepping forward. If the door could have gulped, it would have.

"You're a sorceress. You're an enemy of the kingdom. I can't let you in."

"And how will you stop me?"

"I won't open. I'm very strong, you know. And I've sent for the guards."

"But there are no guards, are there? No more goblins, no King. Just you and me here together. No one to help you."

"If there were guards they'd be here."

"But there aren't."

"There could be. They could be hiding behind me."

"But they aren't!"

"You don't know! You don't know they aren't there," it said, smugly.

"Yes I do-"

Aliane blinked. Had she really just gotten into an argument with a _door_?

"Open now. I won't tell you again."

"No. And you'll never get in unless I open. I'm unbreakable."

Aliane grinned then, snapping her fingers. Thin arcs of power shot across them like miniature lightning.

"Want to bet?"


	8. Chapter 8

I'm sorry this chapter was late! My life decided to have a temporary bout of insanity and I was unable to reach a computer.

Please, please review! Please! *begs shamelessly* They make me very happy.

**Chapter 8**

Alma sat with the Troll King at the usual long table. There was a certain excitement in the air, a tangible sense that something fantastic was about to happen. The King refused to tell her what it was, saying it was a surprise.

She was glad of the distraction—seeing the book had stirred disquieting sensations and thoughts. There was a vague sense of _wrongness _spreading through her mind, and what Alma had become didn't like it at all. She'd wanted to tell the Troll King about it and the mysterious book, but every time she was on the verge of saying something, some inner barrier prevented the words from escaping.

Music rose from one end of the hall, and the conversation at the tables slowly died down. The music was different from what Alma had heard before. It featured far more percussion and one wailing flute. It had a wild, reckless sort of beat that wormed its way into people's heads and hearts, making the blood pound. Alma wasn't to know that it was partly magical and an integral part of maintaining control over the trolls. It ensured that they continued to follow their insane kings, fanning their spark of corruption to a wild flame.

A troll in all but blood, Alma could feel the music working on her, though she didn't know what it was. She just knew that it quieted the discomfort in her head, shutting out the depressing new thoughts, though she found she couldn't lose herself in it totally.

There was one small inner voice that kept up the constant chant, _this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong_. To shut it out too, Alma had a bit more wine. She'd started drinking the wine what felt like ages before, though it had only been about a week and a half.

The music became faster, seeming to speak of heart-pounding struggle, of blood, of pain and death. When it reached fever pitch and everyone in the hall (with the possible exception of the human slaves, who nobody cared about) was fixated on the doors at the end. They swung open, revealing several new troll and human servants, dragging massive cages.

Alma gasped at their contents. _Wolves_. Hungry, vicious, _huge _wolves. These were wolves bred by the trolls specifically for those traits. Troll wolves lived in a constant state of starvation, hungry even while eating. The viciousness came with the territory. A true troll wolf could, on its own, rip apart most of a herd of deer, or a human camp. They weren't terribly picky eaters.

The Troll King clapped his hands, and the massive doors opened once more. This time what entered were human men and women, all chained together. Alma couldn't even gasp, though her eyes widened. She had a very good idea of what was going to happen. Somehow, though, the thought wasn't as abhorrent as it would have been two weeks before. In fact, it was quite exciting.

The cages were pulled into a circle in the center of the hall, leaving one small opening, which was blocked by two heavily armored trolls with spears. Three of the human prisoners were released from their chains and shoved to the center of the ring. The watching trolls jeered at them as they were given tiny, pitiful knives. The Troll King smiled as the humans turned to face him, identical expressions of weary fear and hatred on all their faces.

"I trust your situation is self explanatory," he said, with a smile calculated to insult. The prisoners glared at him. "You will fight, or you will die. Nothing more need be said."

He nodded at the trolls surrounding the cages. One took a long pole, reaching through the bars to unbar the door the opened into the ring. Instantly, the wolf it contained leapt out in a maddened rage.

The wolf was already angry. It had been caged for far too long and had not been fed for five hours, an eternity for a troll wolf. Now there was prey in front of it, prey that smelled like fear. It leapt for the throat of the nearest, snarling and displaying truly terrifying teeth.

The outcome was fairly predictable. The wolf happily feasted as the trolls yelled and cheered. Alma felt a curious sense of calm, with mounting excitement. The small voice inside her told her that this was wrong, that she had just seen three men torn to pieces and was _smiling. She was excited by watching three people die. _The small voice was screaming, beating on the walls where the Troll King's words had imprisoned it. Alma downed more wine and tried not to listen.

* * *

><p>Edwina walked back to Alma's room, carrying a heavy basket of clean laundry. She was fighting back tears of helpless rage. She'd known those men in the banquet hall. They'd lived in a camp near hers. She'd hoped against hope that even though her camp had been destroyed, they had survived, only to have her hopes crushed when she'd seen them brought into the banquet hall, where she'd been serving.<p>

Behind her, she heard the screams as the wolves were set on the next victims, women this time. A small sob tried to escape, and she forced it back. Now was not the time to cry. She added the deaths to her mental list of all the crimes perpetuated by the Troll King, more names to the roll call she said quietly each night before sleeping so as not to forget who she was fighting for. More coals to the fire of hatred that burned inside her.

She walked on, and only a very astute observer would have seen her white-knuckled grip on the basket, the eyes blinking away unshed tears, and her slightly trembling lips.

* * *

><p>Such an observer had, in fact, been watching from the shadows of an unnoticed doorway. Two of them, actually. Ranulf and Keir stepped from the shadows when the girl had gone. Keir looked after her with a peculiarly wistful expression.<p>

"Don't tell me you like her." Ranulf's slightly hoarse voice carried no emotion, rather the _suggestion _that stronger and quit possibly negative emotion could be produced if the answer was not to his liking.

"I'm sorry?" Keir turned to his companion with an innocent expression. He tapped his ear. "I really cannot hear you at the moment."

"You took the wax out of your ears the minute we left the banquet hall."

"You can't blame me for trying. I grow rather tired of this… _possessiveness_."

"You'll deal with it, at least until the king is dead and Margret takes the throne," said Ranulf, bluntly. "Then do what you want."

Keir pouted at him. He was very good at it, as he got a great deal of practice when dealing with his companion. Privately, he knew that he'd never leave Ranulf—the man was simply far too interesting.

Anyone who attempted even the slightest semblance of a code of honor in the troll kingdom was having tea with Death on a regular basis. Ranulf did, and somehow managed to survive, even though such a code meant he was at war with his own inner nature. Nobody else could have convinced the King to spare the captured human children, or hidden three camps from the patrols because they had pregnant women. Yet he happily watched the gladiatorial entertainment practically without blinking, and actually hated humans with a driving and all-consuming passion.

_Well, _almost _all-consuming. _This thought was followed with a brief smirk.

"So, boys, how have you fared?" asked Lady Margret, daintily removing the last of the beeswax from her ears as she stepped from the shadows. Both men jumped slightly, like guilty children caught stealing from the sweet jar. She had that effect on people, despite her youth, and even the two lieutenants were not entirely immune when surprised.

_Quite possibly a good trait in a future queen_, thought Keir. Because he didn't like to be flustered, he added, _Or a schoolteacher. _

Out loud, he said, "How but well, my lady?"

"Don't 'my lady' me again, Keir. From you it is not a term of respect."

"Yes, milady."

"Keir?"

"Milady?"

"I can kill you. Easily. Painfully. Slowly."

"Yes… Lady Margret."

Margret decided to drop the matter, despite Keir's insolent tone, contenting herself with a brief fantasy of beheading him with a battle-axe. Unfortunately, such fantasies would never see the light of day. She needed him.

"So, you've fared well. How well, exactly?"

"Perhaps five more nobles turned to your cause."

Margret allowed herself a brief moment of exultation—this was more than she'd dared hope in the days since their last meeting. Then she frowned at the wording.

"Perhaps?"

"One is wavering somewhat. He's in a delicate position."

"Who?"

"The Master of the Hunt, Lord Grey."

Margret's eyes gleamed. Few troll courtiers were more influential than the Master of the Hunt. Lord Grey was quite powerful, and his opinion carried a great deal of weight with the Troll King. Despite the innocuous title, Master of the Hunt was a position given only to the most trusted trolls. If his loyalty was wavering, she had a definite chance.

"I suppose I can understand why he's be reluctant to jeopardize his position to back a challenger. I'll go speak with him myself."

"Is that really wise?"

Margret gave him a withering look that might have cracked the bone skin of a lesser troll. Quite literally—she was not the most powerful troll sorceress, but neither was she by any means the _least _powerful.

Keir was not very good at taking hints, at least not hints he didn't like.

"Lady Margret, right now Lord Grey doesn't know who you are. He only knows a potential challenger exists, and expressed some interest. We can't be at all sure his loyalty to the King is truly broken. Are you really prepared to risk everything you've gained for the sake of the support of one man, even a powerful one? Even if he doesn't immediately turn you in, he'll expect results soon, results we are not equipped to give right now. Your position at court is delicate enough without added pressure. Let us continue to work on him."

"Why are you so eager to risk your life?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Because it's so _fun!" _Keir smiled somewhat maniacally. Margret gave up attempting understanding. He wouldn't—couldn't—betray her, and that was all she needed at the moment. She turned to Ranulf.

"And you?"

"The guard is unhappy. They want to go further out, not hide inside our borders. The King promised them a conquest of the Goblin Kingdom. It's been fifteen years, and there's no sign of that ever happening. They're almost ready for you."

"Good."

* * *

><p>The small meeting eventually broke up, Ranulf and Keir going back to their shared quarters and Margret walking to her own chambers and shutting the door. Quarters of her own were a blessing and possible miracle—despite being the King's niece she was only considered minor nobility. Outside the royal wing, the quarters for the rest of the trolls were severely overcrowded, spilling into equally crowded villages just outside the fortress walls. She'd had plenty of cause to thank whatever powers were listening for her own room in the past year.<p>

After checking that the maid had gone to sleep, Margret calmly walked over to her bed, sat down, and succumbed to a mild fit of silent, terrified hysterics. She shook, hugging her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, tears gathering in her eyes, covering her own mouth to prevent the sobs from escaping. After a few minutes, she mastered herself and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Margret was nineteen years old. By troll standards she was an adult, though much of the time she didn't feel it at all, especially when dealing with Ranulf and Keir. They frightened her, even though they were nominally on her side.

A great many things frightened her, actually. The thought that her allies might betray her. The thought that no one would accept her challenge to the throne. The thought that one day she wouldn't be able to block the music and she'd betray herself. There were many similar thoughts crowding together in her head, all clamoring to be heard, all waiting for just one mistake to escape being mere thoughts and become reality.

_That won't happen! _she told herself, fiercely. _I _won't _make any mistakes! I can't. _

"Show no fear," she whispered. It was the last thing her mother, the King's sister, had told her, before the men had come for her. They'd dragged her and Margret's half-brother down to the throne room and the King had killed them, right in front of the throne. He couldn't let any of his surviving family live. He only let Margret live because she amused him, and more importantly, she was a bastard. Her mother had not been a model of wifely virtue. Few trolls were, but generally they were careful enough that children didn't result. Margret was the exception.

She didn't understand loyalty or grief in quite the same way a human did. However, out of fury and despair had come a desire for vengeance. For most trolls, vengeance wasn't complicated. If someone wronged you, you wronged them back, unless they were the king. He was entitled.

Margret was the first to ask, _why? _Why did the King have the right to take away the only people who treated her with kindness? She'd only been four when her mother died, and in the first ten years following her mother's death she'd answered the question herself: _he didn't. _Margret had finally decided to act. Any noble could challenge the King. Bastard or no, she was eligible.

A challenger to the throne had to be fearless. Any sign of weakness would lose her support and get her killed. So she hid her fears, buried them under the certainties that her mother and brother had died, and she had to avenge them.

More than that, it was _right _that she would be Queen. Margret didn't like the direction of the troll kingdom. The overcrowding, the slavery, the endless war with the goblins… it didn't make _sense. _She was determined to show the trolls that there were other ways of doing things.

And if they didn't want to see, she would _make _them.

* * *

><p>Alma went back to her room, rubbing her head. She was tired, full of food, slightly tipsy, and the music seemed to have given her a mild headache. This was coupled with the fact that her emotions were torn between wild elation and total disgust that she couldn't understand at all. The entertainment had been frightfully exciting and simply wonderful, so why did she want to throw up every time she thought about it?<p>

It was with these irritating sensations in her head that she sat down in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection. The Troll King had said she was pretty. Why then did she feel like she… wasn't? The dress was wonderful, wasn't it? Wait, she didn't like brilliant green. Yes she did, what was she thinking?

The thoughts went around and around in Alma's head until she just wanted to slam her forehead down on the table. Edwina came in then, carrying a bowl of water for her to wash in. She stepped forward, offering it, and suddenly, she slipped. The bowl fell crashing to the floor and smashed, soaking Alma's shoes. Immediately, she whirled furiously on Edwina, determined to take out the disquieting feelings from the turmoil in her head on _someone._

"Clumsy idiot!"

Then Alma slapped her across the face.

It seemed to echo across the room, a vicious _crack! _that went on long after she had pulled her hand maid stumbled back, clutching her reddening cheek, staring with accusing eyes.

Something went _crack _inside Alma, too. A rising tide of shock, horror, and terrible shame, too long held back, spread through her. She gasped and collapsed back onto the bed.

"Oh my God." she whispered. What had she just done? _How _could she have done that? What had happened to her? Alma had never in her life struck anyone in anger. Now she looked at her hand as though it didn't belong to her, feeling the faint tingling aftereffect of the blow she'd just delivered.

"I… I… I don't know what I just did. I'm so, so sorry—" Unable to help herself, she started to cry. "That's not _me_, not at all, I don't know how I… I just want to go home! How could I forget that? _I want to go home!_"

The maid watched her impassively. Then, wordlessly, she passed Alma a handkerchief, and waited for her to stop crying. It took a while.

"It's the trolls." The maid said, matter-of-factly. "Live with them, eat their food, talk with them, and you become one of them. Especially the king. He loves it, bringing out the very worst in people."

Alma shuddered.

"He was so… he was so _nice_!" It sounded childish and she knew it, but it needed to be said.

"Of course he was. That's what he does. He's nice and good and kind and so very persuasive, and you want to please him, and then suddenly you realize he isn't at all what you thought. Or you don't realize, and then it's too late. I'd almost given up hope with you."

"You'd almost—wait, you knew? You knew what he was doing? And you still let me…"

"You wouldn't have believed me if I'd told you, and then I would have been killed. You had to realize on your own. It's the only way to make you see."

"When you broke the bowl—"

"Yes, I did it on purpose. A last attempt to get you to realize what you were becoming."

"A last attempt… the book was you too, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

Alma stared at her.

"Why? You were risking your life!"

"I thought if I could get through to you… you might help me."

"Help you?"

"I'm not the only human slave. There are hundreds of us."

Alma began to get the picture.

"You want to escape."

"Not just escape. We want to make it so that none of us have to live in fear again."

Alma began to smile. She'd just discovered that she'd probably been a horrible person for the past two weeks, and had done some things she never could have imagined doing. Not to mention the terrible dress. Now, though, there was a story. There was a rebellion against an evil king, and the possibility that she might make it home after all.

"Tell me _everything_." She glanced at Edwina's face and added, "Please."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for not updating! I'm in summer classes and I just started working full-time, so updates became very difficult. However, I shall persevere. This story shall be finished! *uplifting fanfare* Hopefully, updates will get more regular in future.

The Obligatory Subtle Hint: Reviews make me very, very happy, and provide me with hope, which is a lovely and necessary thing when this is the longest story I've written in my life.

Onwards! *more fanfare*

**Chapter 9 **

Aliane slipped silently out of the room at the Lodge, unable to remain in bed. She'd felt horribly stifled and hot, despite an intense attack of shivering, and every small sound had magnified until even her husband's quiet breathing had seemed like thunder. Outside, she was able to breathe again, though a terrible feeling of dread remained. Unfortunately, she knew that the feelings would only get stronger as they approached the full moon. Worse, she knew exactly why.

It had taken her almost a week of wrestling with herself to come to this decision. A week of having her desire to see her daughter again pitted against her intense fear of the course of action she was about to take and the thought of what her husband would say when he found out. Much of that time had been spent in an attempt to discover something, _anything_ that she could do instead. Sadly, her research on the internet, her own scrolls, and a few choice telephone calls had only confirmed her worst fears.

She had taken almost twenty minutes and nearly all of the minor demon's power to break down the door. She'd been impressed in spite of herself—the door had been sitting on its own for two hundred years without renewal. Had the goblins still lived under the hill, she knew that she'd never have been able to break through.

Following the breaking of the door, Aliane had followed the tracks into the moldering goblin city. She'd been surprised by the beauty she found there. The stories she'd been told as a child had spoken of dank caverns full of bats and spiders, not the brilliant stones and graceful buildings she saw. Then she'd found the water mirror.

Aliane had never seen such magic before, and she wondered at it now; the spells that kept the ancient kingdom hidden even from modern technology, that kept the lake from collapsing, that she now suspected maintained the weather. Childhood bogeymen they might be, but the goblins were very powerful.

The signs of a struggle she saw in the room disturbed her. At first she'd assumed that this was where Alma had begun to resist, but closer inspection of the prints and a few brief spells had confirmed that the party had been attacked by another, larger force. All had vanished into the wall of water.

Nearly two hours, the last of the demon power, and every spell she could think of later, Aliane had to admit that the power she possessed was not sufficient to bring her through the mirror and into whatever dimension or parallel universe or hell the goblins had taken her daughter.

Well, nearly every spell she could think of.

Too many sorcerers made the decision to summon a greater demon lightly. Aliane was not one of them. She'd seen the consequences, and knew with terrifying precision exactly what the summoning would cost her. It went far beyond just her soul at death, which was horrible enough.

Aliane was well aware of what demonic power would do to her. Her great-grandfather had gradually worked up to a greater demon, building his tolerance to the power, and even he'd acted strangely towards the end of his life. She'd have no such chance to gradually accustom herself. The addictive rush, the sense of being above the world… all would multiply practically infinitely. There was a reason sorcerers had walked the world like gods—they thought they were. Demonic power didn't just require a soul. It would take her very humanity.

She knew she could never let that happen to her. The world had enough tyrants and the last thing it needed was one with demonic power. Beyond that, she could never let José or Alma see her become a monster. She knew, though, that she wouldn't have much time. The power worked quickly—three weeks, maybe a month, and she would be lost. So Aliane made a simple decision.

As soon as Alma was safe, her mother would die.

* * *

><p>Marak was in a rather foul mood. Construction of the Device had been delayed severely due to problems with the weight of the metal. Any use of magic would be detected, and so the dwarves were struggling with the problem of the necessity of strength versus the necessity of being mobile and having the Device support its own weight.<p>

Wood was not to be thought of, as any extra cutting of trees would be noted by troll spies, not to mention anger the elves. The peace was tenuous at best, hinging on a shared enemy, but the slightest trouble could do irreparable damage. Marak had no wish to upset that particular status quo, at least not while still in conflict with the trolls. Later was an entirely different matter, of course.

Necalli came towards him through the construction site, with a nervous looking member of the guard in tow. She stopped in front of him, giving a brief push to the other goblin woman.

"Good news, Necalli. Please tell me only good news." Marak rubbed his eyes briefly.

Necalli grimaced.

"Well… I'm not entirely sure." She nodded at the guard. "Tell the King, Nineveh."

Nineveh nervously looked up. She was a very young cat goblin, no more than seventeen, with mottled gray and brown fur and green eyes. She'd also clearly had something of a fright—her pointed ears were nearly flat against her skull.

"I was on patrol in cat shape on the outer border during the last daylight shift," she began. Marak frowned slightly, wishing he didn't have to send the youngest goblins on such dangerous missions. He noticed she'd stopped upon seeing his face, and gestured for her to continue.

"It was nearly sunset, and I was about to return to the changeover point where the night guard would relieve me. I was nearly there when I was attacked with magic."

"What kind of magic?"

Nineveh shivered.

"_Troll_ magic. I had no chance to defend myself. It was a total paralysis spell—I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, I actually felt my heart stop! I couldn't use magic at all—my natural magic was just enough to keep me alive, and I couldn't say any spells or make any gestures anyway. Then someone picked me up, and released the spell partially, just enough so I wouldn't die."

"Who picked you up? And didn't you have defensive spells?"

"I had defensive spells, but this went right through them like they didn't exist. It was a troll man who picked me up. I know because he talked to me, though I didn't get a look at his face."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'Take a message to your king, little cat. Tell him his defenses need work, and that he may find the night of the next full moon a fitting time to take action.'"

"That's all?"

"Yes. After that he put me back on the ground. The spell wore off maybe two minutes later, and I went straight to Necalli."

"What did his voice sound like?"

"Deep, and somewhat hoarse, like he was recovering from a cold."

"Could he have seen you patrolling?"

Nineveh bristled slightly, her hair rising.

"No! I was very careful, and I blend into the forest very well."

Necalli nodded confirmation.

"None of the border guards would make such an amateur mistake. Nineveh may not be as experienced as some, but I assigned her to the outer border because she is very, very good at not being seen. She wouldn't give herself away."

Marak frowned.

"Which means he knew she was going to be there and when… thank you, Nineveh. Make sure you see Enki and he confirms the spell did no lasting damage, and have someone tell Bedros and the elders I need them in the council chambers. I may need to test you myself or question you further later, but for now you're dismissed."

She bowed and left.

"It's a very good thing her father is off scouting for the next three days," commented Necalli. "If he was here, I'm fairly sure he would be trying to kill me or at the very least attempting to do something extremely nasty to my kneecaps for assigning his daughter such a dangerous job."

Marak couldn't help but wince slightly in sympathy.

"You _are_ his commanding officer."

"You tell him that. I'll watch. From a safe distance."

* * *

><p>José opened his eyes. He'd felt Aliane leave his side. She hadn't been sleeping well, neither of them had. This was the first time she'd felt the need to leave the room though. The feeling that something was terribly wrong, which had gnawed at him since he'd found the concealed artifacts in her bag, had only gotten worse in the last week, as Aliane seemed more and more distant and less and less interested in the world around her.<p>

There had been meetings with representatives from the US embassy, with police, with various crackpots and sadists who'd claimed knowledge of the whereabouts of Alma or her body. The first time someone claimed responsibility for killing her, José had felt his heart stop. His first thought had been to throttle the man who made the claim. But Aliane had merely pulled him back down, calmly stated, "This man is lying," and walked out.

He'd seen the suspicion then, in the eyes of the police in the room. After she left, they had questioned him at length. Could he answer for his wife's whereabouts at the time of his daughter's disappearance? Had she been acting unusually? Had she been meeting people he didn't know or making suspicious phone calls? Had he seen anything suspicious on her clothing? Had she fought with Alma in the time leading up to the disappearance?

José had lied. He knew why they suspected his wife, and he himself was concerned about her behavior. He knew there were things in Aliane's past he had no knowledge of, and that at times she could be…odd. He couldn't even say _why_ he had such blind faith that the police were entirely wrong. Even so, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was innocent, that she loved him and Alma, and would never do anything to harm them.

Not intentionally.

Cursing his own suspicion, José rose from the bed and followed his wife out of the room.

* * *

><p>Alma sat nervously next to Edwina, looking out at the circle of expectant faces. It had taken a week for Edwina to trust her enough to introduce her to the rebel group; a long, nerve-wracking, frightening week. It had been made clear in no uncertain terms that if Alma betrayed the group or failed to convince the troll king that she was still under his spell, then by the hand of the human rebels, their troll allies, or the king himself, she would die very slowly and very painfully.<p>

Maintaining the charade hadn't been as difficult as Alma had imagined it would be, though this in and of itself had caused her some concern. She'd thought it would be impossible to slip back into the person of the last two weeks, the idiot who had been brainwashed by a troll.

However, it had been incredibly easy. She sat at table with the king, laughed at what he said, looked flattered when he complimented her appearance, listened to the music, clapped at the bloody entertainment, and frantically pinched herself under the table to keep her thoughts clear, which was increasingly difficult. The king made it very easy for her to backslide. He was always courteous, always handsome, always generous. Anybody remaining in his company for long would find themselves wanting to please him, to laugh with him; even at things that, had they been thinking rationally, they would have considered horrendous atrocities.

Alma was frightened by how easy it was to slip back into her role as his pet, how much she wanted to please him, and the fact that she couldn't help but feel guilty about her subterfuge when she was with him. Alma hadn't had very much experience with mind control, but she was fairly sure that once you broke out, that should be it. The mind is clean, the bad things are all gone, and there's no danger of a relapse. It really shouldn't take great effort _not_ to betray your new allies.

Edwina had not been particularly sympathetic when Alma had told her about this.

"Oh dear, it's so difficult. You have to betray a monster who _enjoys_ having innocent people ripped apart in front of him in order to help your own kind! You have to sit at banquets while we, lazy servants that we are, clean your room, wash your clothes and eat our _delicious_ scraps of stale bread and barely-cooked meat! You are _forced_ to sleep in a comfortable feather bed while we sleep on the floor! It's so difficult to think of your worried, loving, _alive_ family in the other world while all _we_ do is complain about our families who were brutally slaughtered before we could speak! Yes, you have such a very terrible, horrible, _tragic_ life!"

After this, Alma had chosen to keep her fears to herself.

The group did not introduce themselves. Names were dangerous things. Edwina merely nodded at the assembly, and briefly noted the presence of Alma. The others in the room looked up with only the faintest hope. Winning over Alma had been a great victory for them, but it also came with a new set of dangers, not to mention the fact that previous victories had ended in death.

One of the men Edwina nodded at was a worker in the dungeons. He stood, hesitantly.

"The guards are restless. There are claims that the king is growing weak, that he fears the goblins and so won't fight them. He still ruthlessly crushes any attempts to expand out of the current borders, and he won't let them raid the elves anymore. And…"

"Go on." The man cast a nervous glance at Alma.

"They say his… close association with a human has clouded his judgment."

"Interesting," said Edwina, ignoring the now scarlet-faced Alma. She indicated a woman, who stood as the first speaker sat.

"Several members of court are saying it may be time to back a challenger."

"Who?"

"Lady Frida, Lady Helga, Lord Calder, Lord Fenris, and one other man whose name they never said, though they sounded nervous around him. I listened through the wall but I couldn't see them."

"Do they know of a challenger?"

"None of them wanted to say anything."

Edwina frowned. "I may need to talk to Keir. I thought he would have brought more trolls on board now that he's found a challenger."

"Could he have lied to us?" asked one of the men from the circle.

"Well, if he has, we're all dead anyway, so I suppose we should proceed as though he hasn't." This brought a few nervous chuckles, but the remark had hit too close to everyone's fears for any real mirth. Realizing this, Edwina quickly continued.

"Anyway, we should move on. We have a new friend, of course—" Alma half expected the group to obediently greet her, like six year-olds being forced to welcome a new student who know they can be nasty in private later— "and she has the potential to be a great asset to us."

She smiled.

_I don't think I like it when she smiles,_ thought Alma.

"We know, of course, that the crown of the troll kings is a fundamental part of their power. Nothing powerful in and of itself, but it's of great significance to the trolls. Well, what if he… lost it? And the next day, multiple _identical_ crowns show up in the possession of the three or four most powerful non-royal trolls?"

Eyes around the circle grew wide.

"Civil war." Alma didn't realize she had spoken aloud until everyone looked at her. "You're going to make them fight each other to the death."

Edwina nodded. "Trolls are ambitious. If each one believes he is the rightful king, he'll fight to the death to defend that right."

"And the challenger you've been talking about? Your troll ally?"

Alma could feel Edwina's glare practically burning her face, but she couldn't stop asking questions.

"We'll tell him beforehand, so he can make sure his challenger is the one who succeeds to the throne. Most importantly, we escape in the confusion."

"But how do you think you're make copies of the crown? Or even get to it in the first place?"

Now Edwina smiled again.

"Oh, stealing the crown will be the easy part. For us, anyway."

Alma thought for a moment, realized what that meant, and found that what came to mind was a singularly effective piece of British slang she'd picked up.

_Oh, bugger. _


End file.
